Sleepy Hollow: The Once and Future Crane
by Donnamour1969
Summary: NOW COMPLETE Set post-Season 3 finale. Crane cannot accept what happens to Abbie, so he travels back in time to prevent it, and to share with her his new-found feelings. What could possibly go wrong? Spoilers, 3x18. Romance, drama, humor Rated T/M for adult situations.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This story is set post Season 3 finale, although technically, a little before the very end, before Crane's visit to Abbie's grave. I refuse to accept that Abbie is gone, and indeed, so does Crane in this story. I hope you enjoy this, my second** _ **Sleepy Hollow**_ **fic.**

 **The Once and Future Crane**

 **Chapter 1**

It had taken him five days to pull himself out of his shock before Ichabod Crane was able to cry. When it finally happened, he was sitting alone in The Archives, the light soft and drowsy, and he had glanced up from the book he had not been reading to the table where Abbie Mills had often sat. For a moment he had forgotten she was gone, and his sleep-deprived brain had fully expected to see her there, grinning impishly at one of her own sly comments. But she was not there.

 _She was not there_.

She would never be there again. Her soul had fled to some faraway place where he could not reach her, and he felt merely half-alive because of it.

In the first few days after Abbie's death, Miss Jenny had looked in on him, had even brought him food, which he had only halfheartedly eaten in her presence.

His only drink had been Scotch.

Neither of them had spoken of Abbie, and after she saw him take a bite of Chinese takeout, she'd left him alone again with his grief. He'd wanted to reach out to her, to lend comfort to the woman who had lost both her lover and her sister, but to his shame, he could not summon the strength to do it.

Mr. Mills had brought the Scotch. He too had left after a few awkward words, his dark eyes bright with his own unshed tears.

Alone with his disjointed thoughts and his Scotch, Crane had sat staring sightlessly at the walls of books he and Abbie had poured through in search of clues of demons and gods and apocalyptic prophecy. All for naught, it would seem. Sure, they had saved the world—a _couple_ of times—but Crane was having difficulty appreciating Abbie's sacrifice when she had saved everyone else's world but left him with nothing but an un-fillable emptiness. He knew that was the height of selfishness on his part, but there it was. When he was at last able to cry, that was one of the things he knew he would cry most about.

When the first sob came, it felt as if it were torn from deep inside his very soul, and Crane bawled like a frightened child lost in the woods. The tears he had unwillingly dammed since Abbie had faded into Pandora's box , since they had held her private memorial service with not even a body to mourn, had broken free at last, violently wracking his lithe frame. For another day afterwards, he couldn't seem to stop the flow of them, until he was a wrecked, pitiful mess, his tears finally drying on blotchy cheeks, his eyes red and sunken and empty. Another day had faded into darkness without his notice, but then, exhausted, he had slept for twelve hours, though in his dreams he'd relived her sacrifice over and over.

He awoke at last with a pounding headache, puffy eyes, a painfully empty stomach, and a plan. He ate cold Chinese food from the mini fridge Jenny had bought a year before, downed one of her ubiquitous diet sodas she kept there, tasting neither, but knowing that what he was about to do would require physical sustenance that he didn't have.

He went to the small bathroom and washed his face and hands, refusing to look at himself in the mirror, dreading what he would see there. He forced himself to make coffee, only flinching a little when he smelled the strong, familiar brew that had been Abbie's favorite.

The sleep and the cry had done him good, he'd realized, had cleared his head and revived his determination. In his dreams he had come to the conclusion that what had happened to Abbie had been all wrong—not just because she was so young, so wonderful, so undeserving of such an end. No, he couldn't accept her death for a much more practical reason: it went against all prophecy of the fate of the witnesses. Her death had been decidedly premature in the grand scheme of things, for the prophets had foretold that the witnesses would suffer seven tribulations, and by Crane's count, they had made it through only two.

The universe owed them five more, and by God, Crane intended to collect.

Abbie's last words to him were not to lose hope. In his unconscious vision of her after Pandora's box had exploded, she had encouraged him to let her go, to go on with his life without her. This, he saw now, could not truly have been _his_ Abbie, no matter how comforting she had seemed at the time, no matter how real her warm hand had felt beneath his lips. He was certain now that some nefarious force had planted this false vision in his mind in an attempt to make him give up, to set aside the duty they had had as witnesses. With her gone, and he at loose ends, Crane was convinced some evil would re-emerge that he would not be able to destroy alone.

He was not going to allow that to happen. He needed his fellow witness beside him.

But with Pandora's box destroyed, along with Pandora herself, he had no idea how he could bring Abbie back, or, indeed where she had vanished to. Heaven? Purgatory? Certainly it could not be Hell, not his Lieutenant, a more pure and perfect being he had not encountered, in this life or his last.

He thought of séances or different spells to raise the dead, but he knew they might only bring either her spirit _or_ her body back, not likely both at the same time. That was unacceptable to him. He wanted all of her—the _true_ essence of Abigail Mills joined with her petite body—or nothing at all. Besides, such dark magic was beyond his powers, and would likely involve additional, unforeseen sacrifices he was not prepared to make.

No, he was left with only one recourse that he could think of, and the gravity of the idea was not lost on him. It entailed its own risks, risks he had been unwilling to take in the past for fear of changing history, or destiny or fate, or whatever one might call it. But then again, if it failed, what might he lose? Abbie would likely die again. Joe Corbin would probably perish as well. Perhaps even _he_ could die, which might actually be a blessing, given how dead he felt now without her.

Another obvious risk would be that The Hidden One's plan would work, or even Pandora's less catastrophic, slightly more benevolent need for world domination might transpire. Crane might be sentencing the earth to enslavement and destruction through his selfish desire to get Abbie back.

But perhaps, just perhaps, everything might work out even better this time. Maybe, if one looked at it another way, going back in time was what was _meant_ to be, what he was supposed to do in order to bring balance back to the universe and fulfill the rightful prophecy of the two witnesses. Maybe _not_ going back and attempting to right things would sentence the world to even greater pain and suffering without both witnesses there to stop it.

He would gladly undergo five more tribulations with Abbie than live one lifetime without her.

It was settled then, thought Crane, sipping the strong, reviving coffee. He would use the same traveler's spell that Katrina had used, that had taken Abbie with her back in time. He would have a brief few hours to reverse the spell if things began to go wrong quickly—Abbie had written Grace Dixon's reversal spell down in her family journal—but after that window had closed, he would be forced to deal with whatever came next, good or bad. But Crane was confident he would be able to steer their course around the pitfalls of what had happened before.

But it begged the question, how far back should he go?

It occurred to Crane immediately that he would go back to the day—no, the day _before_ —he first felt the stirring in Katrina's necklace, the sudden glow he now knew was when Pandora had stolen the Horseman of Death's power and stored it in her infernal box. If he could somehow stop Pandora, he could stop the rise of The Hidden One, and thus forestall the deaths of Master Corbin and Abbie. He didn't know yet how he could accomplish any of this, but he was confident that knowledge of the two gods' existence before they were unleashed upon the world would allow him to put an end to their evil intentions before they even began. Kill them in the shell like the snakes they were, as Shakespeare once suggested Brutus had done to Julius Caesar. (Crane resolutely chose to discount what happened to Brutus as a result, however.)

With one more sip of his cooling coffee, Crane set to work preparing himself both mentally and physically for what he was about to do. He took a few deep, Yoga breaths that would have made Abbie proud. If he were truthful with himself, there really was only one simple reason he was going to do this. Pandora of all beings had pointed it out before she died.

"You love her," she had said. The goddess had been so completely on the nose that he'd felt the words like a physical blow to his gut. Why had he not seen it before? Why had he not acted upon it while he had had the chance? He had once thought that Katrina was the love of his life, but he knew now she had only been the love of his _first_ life. Abbie was his love for all time, and he could not bear to let her go now he belatedly realized it.

"I love you, Grace Abigail Mills," he said aloud to the quiet Archives. "And I shall have no qualms crossing time and space so that I might tell it to you in person, so that I might rectify all my failings on your account, face all my nonsensical fears. We are meant to be together, you and I, and I am sorry I was too late to understand that. But no more. You are my partner, my friend, my true and dearest love." He swallowed hard over the lump in his throat. "And I-I will not fail you again; this is my solemn vow."

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

His perfect memory had given him the words to cast Katrina's traveler's spell, and when he spoke aloud the day to which he wanted to return, he felt a richness in his heart, a strange dichotomy of both a heaviness and a lightness propelling him back and back until he disappeared into the mists of time…

A strange blurriness arrested his eyes and Crane involuntarily blinked several times to rid himself of it. At first, he thought the spell might not have worked, but as his eyes focused on his dim surroundings, he found that he was once again in the top bunk of a holding cell in the Immigration and Customs Enforcement detention center. It had been less than a year since he'd been there, and he remembered well where he was. He looked down at his orange jumpsuit with a smile.

"Thank you, Jesus," he said to the ceiling.

"For what, man?" said his bottom bunkmate, and Crane laughed out loud, remembering.

"For just being you, my friend," replied Crane, hopping down from his bed.

Somewhere nearby, Abbie was alive and well, he thought joyfully, and just a phone call away. He felt around for the amulet suspended from his neck, and pulled out Katrina's necklace from beneath his shirt. He stared at the green stone carefully, pleased to find it had not changed in appearance, had not yet developed the crack that had formed when the Horseman's bond with the jewel had been severed by Pandora. He'd made it to just the right moment in time.

He went to the barred door of his cell.

"Guard!" he called. "I wish to make my one allotted phone call. Guard!"

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Abbie was sitting at a table in the visitor's area, a slightly sardonic smile forming on her lovely lips as she waited for him to join her. But instead of sitting down, he walked round the table and drew her impetuously into his arms.

"None of that!" protested a nearby guard. "No physical contact!"

He inhaled her achingly familiar floral scent and whispered her name in her hair. He felt her arms tighten around his waist before the guard pulled him none too gently away.

"My apologies," he said to Abbie, but not to the guard. He was not sorry for embracing her, but for the abruptness with which it had ended.

Abbie flashed her FBI badge, which had the desired effect of getting the officer to back down, and Abbie smiled her sincere thanks when he did. The man smiled back, and not for the first time Crane recognized how men responded to her charms. His heart constricted with sudden jealousy.

"What the hell, Crane," Abbie was muttering in embarrassment, sitting opposite him again as he settled his long legs beneath the table.

"By my count, it's been nine months, Lieutenant," he said, remembering this place in time. He reached for her hands across the table, pointedly ignoring the guard who was still staring daggers at his back. "I am exceedingly grateful to see you again."

His eyes bore intently into hers, and he didn't even try to hide his emotions. He knew he could pass this off under the guise of their nine-month separation, but she raised one skeptical eyebrow.

"Grateful?" she said. "You mean because I'm bailing you out of this dive, even though you haven't been in touch in months?"

"Yes, for that, among other things," he said mysteriously, but he could not have suppressed his smile had he wanted to. She must have seen some of his naked adoration in his eyes, for she looked down at their joined hands in mild surprise.

"I'm happy to see you too, Crane," she whispered almost shyly.

For a moment, Crane forgot where he was now, remembering instead how only days before he had watched her die before him. His eyes roamed hungrily over her beloved features, and he felt the pricking of tears behind his eyes at the joy of merely being in her presence again. He forgot the ruse of asking what she had been up to in his absence, forgot to tell her why he had called her to come to his rescue. In that moment, he wanted nothing more than to proclaim his love for her at the top of his lungs.

He had contemplated before he cast the traveler's spell whether he would tell Abbie what he had done, how he was, in fact, from the future. They had once made a pact to be honest with one another, and perhaps he would be...eventually. She would be angry with him for trying to rewrite history, for trivializing her sacrifice as Miss Jenny had warned him not to do right before Pandora's box had exploded. He would have to tread carefully, give her no reason to doubt him. He must be an actor equal to one of Shakespeare's finest, he realized, in order to carry this off, or at least do much better than he so far. At the same time, he could not afford to waste a precious moment of this time they had been given. He would do so many things differently now-first and foremost would be revealing his true feelings for her the moment he found a more suitable time and place.

With that in mind, he became aware that they were in the middle of the ICE detention center, and, squeezing her hands one last time, he reluctantly slipped his fingers away.

"Now," he began. "I suppose you're wondering what I was caught attempting to bring home with me…"

 **A/N: I hope you like this beginning. Thanks for giving this fic a try. I would love to hear what you think.**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Wow! I am simply floored at all you amazing readers! This fandom is so kind and welcoming. I hope you will also enjoy this chapter.**

 **Chapter 2**

On the way to Abbie's house, she updated Crane on her having joined the FBI (he hoped he sounded convincingly surprised), and he repeated what he had said months before, about regretting that he had not kept in touch while on sabbatical in England.

"I get it," she said gently. "You needed time to grieve." He'd lost his wife and his son, after all—his wife at his own hand.

"It was selfish of me," he said, remembering how lame his first apology had been, to his ears anyway. "You had been through much yourself. We are a team, you and I; we should endeavor to persevere together in future."

What had he been thinking before, spouting that nonsense that they no longer had a mission together? That they were only drawn to each other through force of habit? In hindsight, Crane realized, he'd been talking completely out of his arse. It had been so obvious, even then, that what had reunited them was not just their sacred duty as witnesses. Surely she saw it was much more than that. He glanced surreptitiously at his companion in the driver's seat, noted her pursed lips.

"Yeah," she said at last. "I think can agree with that. Just don't pull that radio silence crap again, you got me?"

But her eyes were smiling despite her stern remonstration, and his heart picked up speed as his newfound feelings nearly slipped from his lips. He held himself in check, however, for inside the Lieutenant's SUV was not the best place to declare himself. Besides, before he could properly pursue her, he must take care of the problem of Pandora and the Horseman of Death.

He reached over and put his hand over hers, where it rested on the console between them.

"I've got you, Lieutenant," he said softly.

She was a little taken aback, both by his touch and by his tone, and she looked from their hands, up and sidelong to his eyes, upon which he squeezed her hand before gently releasing her. Small steps, he thought, and he smiled.

"So," she said awkwardly, feeling the strange new tension between them. "Would you like to swing by the Archives? Now that you're here, you could help me pack."

 _Oh, that_ , he thought. He summoned the requisite outrage when she clued him in on how the place would soon be destroyed. He knew better, of course, but he played along anyway. He could already see that pretending like this with her would soon become very trying, and he hoped she wouldn't see through his façade before he was ready to share.

"If you don't mind, I'd rather find my truckle bed and sleep for another two-hundred years. I'm feeling rather tired, and have been for days."

Abbie nodded. "Jet lag."

He raised a questioning eyebrow.

"When you travel long distances in a plane," she explained, "especially when crossing time zones, it tends to mess with your internal clock. You feel like you've lost time somehow. It can take several days to feel like yourself again."

"Aw," he said, understanding, though for him it was losing time in the literal sense—nearly a year's worth. He wondered wryly if one could have _time travel_ lag. In actuality, Crane's suggestion was a ruse. He needed to track down the Horseman and save him from Pandora, so Death could in turn destroy _her_. He would pretend to be abed, then hie himself to the woods.

"Someone's been sleeping in your bed, Goldilocks," she was saying. "Joe Corbin is back in town, and he's staying in his father's cabin."

Crane had nearly forgotten. He'd become so used to being Abbie's roommate in the future, that he'd just assumed they would both be heading to their shared home. He tried to appear at a loss.

"I suppose I'll have to rent a room at an inn of some kind," he said, frowning.

She was quiet a moment, contemplating no doubt about asking him to move in with her at her house. He remembered when she had invited him to stay with her the first time. He had been grateful, of course, and had readily accepted her offer, ignoring then why it had appealed so much. Perhaps he had still had mourned Katrina, suppressing his abiding admiration for Miss Mills out of some misplaced loyalty to his traitorous wife. He was finished with those feelings forever.

This time, Crane actually held his breath in anticipation of her invitation, the idea of sleeping so near to her suddenly the most wonderful prospect he had ever known. He was not about to squander this opportunity again. Her current silence, however, had him second-guessing his intentions. Was she feeling what _he_ was feeling, sensing the awareness that had arisen between them? The last thing he wanted to do now was frighten her away. Perhaps she needed more encouragement.

"I should try to find my own dwelling, but I fear I am dangerously low on currency at the moment…"

He was pleased the moment he saw her relent. "No reason you can't stay with me," she said. "I have a couple extra bedrooms."

His heart leapt. "That would be most generous, Lieutenant. I accept your kind invitation."

"Good. Well, let's head there. I'll drop you off, but then I really need to get back to work. There's a dangerous crime ring in town, and I think we're on the verge of a break."

"Very well. You certainly must not allow me to interfere in your work, Agent Mills."

She smirked. " _Agent_ sounds weird coming from you. Lieutenant is fine."

"That's a relief, _Lieutenant_. I am a creature of habit, after all."

They were both still smiling as they pulled into her driveway.

Xxxxxxxxxx

"Pick either of the spare bedrooms," Abbie was saying, as she grabbed a diet soda from the refrigerator. She tossed Crane a can of beer, which he caught with his usual dexterity. They both popped the tops of their beverages in a familiarity he had so missed that he closed his eyes, hiding his sudden emotion behind a long draught of his beer.

"I shall certainly endeavor to pull my own weight—more than—in the upkeep of our shared abode," he said, setting his drink on the kitchen counter.

"Well, if you do laundry, don't mix in my delicates with your heavy breeches."

"Delicates?"

"My uh, undergarments," she said, and to his amazement, the tough agent seemed oddly embarrassed. Crane also felt his own face heating, but he was enjoying her reaction so much, he didn't mind his own mortification at the lady's unmentionables. His hand moved unconsciously to fiddle with the strings of his shirt as he contemplated what she must wear beneath her clothing.

"Right," he said, clearing his throat, then dropping his hand when he realized his display of nerves. "I'll leave such huswifery in your capable hands."

She grinned. "That might be best." She took another drink of her soda and prepared to leave again, but when she moved past Crane, he stopped her, reaching for her hand. She stood up short, then watched in shock as he brought her hand up to his mouth. In a repeat of his last vision of her, he closed his eyes, savoring the amazing feeling of her soft skin beneath his lips. The reality of touching her was certainly better than any dream.

"I have missed you," he said softly, his blue eyes looking longingly down into hers. "I did not know how much until I saw you at the detention center. I swear to you that I'll never leave like that again. With all honesty, I don't know how I survived it for nine entire months."

"Crane—"

"Truly," he said. "I will do my level best to set things aright, no matter what the cost."

"It's okay, really. Let's just pretend it never happened," she said, pulling awkwardly at her hand. But he wouldn't let her go, keeping gentle hold. "Sure," she continued, "there are some changes since you left, but we have both shown how well we can adapt."

While she spoke, he couldn't help focusing on her full lips, how they formed each word so…sensually. How had he not noticed this before? Or perhaps he had, but had pushed those thoughts away. She must have become aware of his attention, for he felt the pulse in her wrist skip a beat, and he allowed his gaze to move upward. Her dark eyes were pleading for a return to normalcy between them, but Crane didn't want things to be the way they once were—well, not completely. Behind her fluster, Crane sensed fear for what it would mean to take that step beyond partners and fellow witnesses.

"Abbie," he whispered, drawing her closer. But then her cell phone rang, and the spell between them was broken. He let her go to answer the insistent ringing, and he cursed anew the advent of modern technology.

"Mills," she answered, turning away from him.

He stood watching her, his blood humming. A moment more, and as sure as he was born, he would have kissed her, and it would have been strange and awkward and indescribably wonderful.

Lost in his thoughts, he paid no attention to her side of the conversation, so when she disconnected and put her phone back in her pocket, it took a moment for him to focus.

"I gotta go," she said.

She was visibly shaken, trying valiantly to tamp down the remembrance of their near-kiss. She moved out of the kitchen toward the front door, while Crane felt rooted to the spot. He wanted to go to her again, to grab her and kiss her senseless and never again let her go. He wondered if he'd ever get over the sensation that if he lost sight of her for even a moment he might never see her again.

She paused, her back to him, her hand on the doorknob. He watched her smooth, wavy bob fall forward to further shield her face. "You should probably get some rest," she said, her tone laced with familiar irony. She closed the door behind her with a soft click.

"Bloody hell," he swore, running his shaking fingers through his hair.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Crane couldn't remember the precise time the Horseman's jewel had cracked, but it had been late in the evening, so he knew he only had a few hours before Pandora was destined to capture him in her box. As far as he could surmise, this had to be when Pandora's plan had been set in motion, and all the things that transpired afterwards would lead to Abbie and Joe Corbin's tragic demise.

 _Looks like an all-nighter for me,_ Abbie texted him. _You'll have to fend for yourself for dinner._

He wondered why she hadn't called. Was she still too shaken to talk to him? Was she using her work to avoid him? He frowned as he typed in a reply.

 _I am sorry we cannot spend my first night back, together. I will muddle through without you._

 _OK. See ya later._

While Crane was disappointed, he was glad he wouldn't have to make up some excuse for why he would be stepping out in the middle of the night. As an afterthought, he sent her a smiley face emoji.

Sometimes a picture was truly worth a thousand words, he mused. He hoped the silly smiling man would put her at ease, let her know all was well, at least on his end. He knew everything would be fine when she replied with an eye-rolling emoji of her own. He grinned, and, stuffing his phone into his coat pocket, he picked up the covered case containing the decapitated head of Abraham Van Brunt. He had just shut the front door when a familiar old pickup pulled into the driveway. Jenny Mills.

"Hey!" she called, climbing out of her vehicle and climbing the stairs of the porch. "The prodigal son has returned!"

Crane groaned internally, and swung the Horseman's head around lamely to set it down behind him. It wasn't that he wasn't glad to see her. Her timing was just a little off. He mustered a smile.

"Miss Jenny! How delightful to see you again!"

Before he could stop her, she was encircling him tightly, her head resting on his chest as she squeezed. He hoped she didn't feel the gun strapped to his hip beneath his coat.

"Abbie just texted me you were home. I thought since she had to work, you wouldn't want to sit around by yourself your first night back. We could go out for a drink or something."

She stepped away from him, smiling up into his face with genuine welcome.

"That sounds lovely, but I do have to run a quick errand first."

"Oh. Need a lift?"

He had already planned to take the mile-long trip by foot, since he had no car, and he certainly didn't want Jenny clued in on his plans.

"No, thank you. I was confined in the Immigration and Customs Enforcement center for far too long. I feel an evening constitutional in the fresh air would be just the thing."

She raised a skeptical eyebrow—definitely a family trait. "You sure?"

"I am positive. I will give you a call when I return. Perhaps you will buy me a dark ale at the public house."

He stood awkwardly on the porch in the twilight, shielding the Horseman's head with his booted legs while he waited for her to leave. In his mind, he felt the seconds ticking by.

"Thank you for coming by, Miss Jenny," he said, trying not to sound too rudely dismissive. "It is most assuredly good to see you again."

"Uh, yeah. Okay then." She began walking toward her pickup, opened the door, and climbed back inside. When she started the car, it was clear she found it odd that he was still in the same place, though he waved her off pleasantly.

Only when the noise of her old exhaust system had faded away did he bend to pick up the old lantern's handle. He trotted down the steps and made his hurried way down the street toward the darkening woods, flashlight from his coat pocket now in hand.

Once he was off the main path and fairly deep into the woods, Crane's impeccable sense of direction led him to the place where he had known the Horseman to ride. In the light of the moon, he lifted the cover from the glass container, and, opening the small door, he removed the two-hundred-thirty-year-old relic.

Holding up the petrified skull, he called forth its owner.

"Abraham Van Brunt, Horseman of Death, I command you come and meet your destiny!"

Katrina's charm felt suddenly warm against his chest, and, looking down, he saw it cast an eerie green glow in the night. The Horseman was definitely listening.

Suddenly, the pounding of angry hooves heralded the arrival of the demon's white horse, its eyes blazing red in the darkness. Riding atop was its master, still clad in his military uniform, wielding his hot-bladed broadax. With the enchanted jewel around his neck, Crane was able to see the face of his old friend in the moonlight.

"Abraham. So glad you could make it."

The Horseman reigned in his mount, stopping short of Crane and his missing head.

"You have something of mine, Crane. I've come to take it back."

Crane nodded. "And I fully intend to give it to you, but I would like to make a bargain with you first."

"I could rid you of your own head, you traitorous bastard, and take it for my collection," he threatened, shaking his ax. "But I'll make it quick and relatively painless. There's a bargain for you."

Crane, though terror had his heart racing, exhibited his usual calm confidence on the outside. "True. But if you will do me this one favor, I shall happily release your property without a fight, as well as bestow upon you some valuable information."

The ghostly face narrowed its eyes in sudden suspicion. "Who are you?" asked the Horseman. "You…you don't belong here."

Crane swallowed. Of course a supernatural being would be able to sense he too had come to this place via supernatural means. _No sense lying about it now_ , he thought.

"You're correct. I am from the future. I've returned here to right some wrongs, and I believe we have a mutual interest in seeing the future changed."

Suddenly, it was as if Crane were talking to his dear friend once more. "Whatever you're thinking, Ichabod, you have no idea of the repercussions of attempting to alter fate."

"Spare me the philosophical discussion, Abraham. We don't have much time. Do you know of the woman, Pandora?"

"The mythological creature with the magical box? Of course. I studied right alongside you, if you recall."

"Well, she is no myth, and she has come to Sleepy Hollow to wreak havoc upon the earth—starting with you."

"Me?" The Horseman laughed. "No woman has power over Death. I have nothing to fear from her."

"I'm afraid you do. I have seen it. On this very night, Pandora drains your power and swallows you up into her box. You alone can defeat her, but only if you uh, keep your head."

At this, Crane held up Abraham's skull.

"Give that to me!"

Crane held it up ominously, as if he would hurl it toward the rocky ground upon which he stood, while the horse began to advance upon him. "Not a step closer, or I shall smash it to the ground!"

Abraham stopped. "There is more to this story, Crane. You obviously need me to destroy your errant goddess, but there is something else you want, I can feel it."

Crane sighed in resignation. He hadn't intended to share this information, but he had the feeling Abraham was not about to do him any favors unless he knew the whole truth.

"If you must know, I am attempting to save the lives of two people I care for very much. They mean nothing to you, but I'm sure you want to stave off Pandora before she imprisons you as she one day will my fellow witness."

"Aw, I see now: Miss Mills. You joined forces with her to defeat my master Moloch. She helped end the impending Apocalypse. She killed my brother Horseman. And you- _you_ killed your own wife to make way for that trollop? Why would I ever wish to help you dishonor Katrina's memory by helping you obtain a happiness you don't deserve? I could simply take back my head, kill you, and kill this Pandora-"

"But you will not kill me," said Crane, with sudden realization. "And I believe I know why. Tell me, Abraham, where is Katrina now?"

"Dead."

Crane shook his head. "No, I think not."

"If you must know, she has confined herself in Purgatory once more, refusing to go on to the next life without you."

"She waits for me?" he said in disbelief.

"Yes. With your infant son. She has convinced herself that the Horseman of War has been returned to the innocent babe he once was, but that is an illusion, I assure you. Jeremy Crane is in Hell with Moloch. I have visited Katrina, but she will not leave Purgatory, no matter how much I beg her. She says you are still holding onto her, so she feels she cannot let you go until you can all be reunited as the family you were meant to be. Clearly, you don't deserve her. You never did."

"And you won't kill me now because then you will have lost her in both this life and the next."

The Horseman's angry silence spoke volumes.

"Despite this, you still want her back? Take her, Abraham. I release any hold I ever had on her; I myself have moved on, believe me."

"It is not that simple," he said. "There is a ritual you must perform to release the hold your soul has on hers."

"But why, my old friend, would you want such a woman who betrayed us both?"

"I love her," said the Horseman of Death. " _I_ am the only one who ever truly has. I've loved her despite all her faults and flightiness with a depth you will never understand."

"Oh, I do," said Crane, thinking of Abbie. "I wish with all my heart I had never married her, had left her for you. But it's not too late for you, Abraham. If you want Katrina back, kill Pandora and I will perform whatever rite you wish. You will have your missing part, and will be free from your own Purgatory here on Earth. Perhaps you can go on and be with Katrina right now, as you were always meant to before I interfered," he suggested slyly.

"Don't patronize me, Ichabod."

Crane sobered at once. "I'm not. I swear it."

Abraham watched his old friend and adversary closely, his voice dropping low in threat. "If you betray me in this, Crane, I will make it my sole purpose to take the head of Abigail Mills, do you understand me?"

In a show of tremendous courage and faith, Crane stepped forward and offered his hand to Death. "I swear on my life and on the life of Abigail Mills, that I will do all that you ask, if you put an end to Pandora forever."

The Horseman shook his hand, and Crane tried to suppress the feeling that he had just made a pact with the devil.

The moment their hands parted, Abraham's ghostly head looked up, as if listening. His ghastly horse did too, and both beings stilled to hear.

"She is calling to me," said the Horseman. "She is quite the arrogant one, to think she can beckon _me_. Give me back my head, and let me make short work of this wench."

The skull felt heavy in Crane's hand, and he knew he would be literally throwing away his last bargaining chip. He tossed it up to the Horseman, and just like before, a bolt of lightning struck it, infusing it with life and supernatural powers. As Crane dove for cover, the horse reared back on its hind legs, whinnying with newfound rage.

"Be cautious," called Crane. "Pandora is powerful, but she is not infallible at your hand."

The Horseman twirled his broadax in arrogant reply, then road off to meet Pandora. Crane took off at a run in pursuit, hoping he would not be too late to witness Pandora's demise, or offer help again should Abraham needed it.

"Crane!" came a familiar voice behind him. He stopped short, turning to confront Jenny Mills.

"What are you doing here?" he said, with uncharacteristic rudeness. She emerged from behind a tree, gun in hand.

"You were leaving Abbie's house armed and carrying the Horseman's head. I thought whatever you were doing, you might need some help, so I drove around the block, left my truck and followed you into the woods."

"I take it you heard our _private_ conversation," said Crane tightly.

"Most of it," she said. "Starting from the moment you said you were from the future."

"Bloody hell," swore Crane. "My apologies, but you weren't meant to know about that. I don't have time to explain any more at present. I must try to catch up with the Horseman. He might very well need my assistance."

"Well, I'm going with you. Then, you've got some serious explaining to do."

 **A/N: Thanks so much for reading. Please take a moment and let me know what you think. Your wonderful reviews are so encouraging. More soon…**

 **P.S.: I've written a lot of fics in several other fandoms. I would be honored if you checked them out (including my other fic for Sleepy Hollow, "Spilt Milk"). Just click on my name**


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Sorry for the lateness of this chapter. I do try to update at least once a week, and I will get to your wonderful reviews of chapter 2 as soon as I can. I'm very thankful so many seem to be enjoying this fic, and I am also grateful for all the favorites and follows. Thanks so much.

 **Chapter 3**

Crane knew exactly where to go: old ruins in the middle of the forest that had become Pandora's lair. Ahead of them, they could hear the pounding of the horse's hooves, the thrashing of bushes and branches as the Horseman made his way through the dark woods. The moonlight and Crane's flashlight lit their way, but Crane didn't bother to slow his long-legged pace to accommodate Jenny's.

"Where the hell are we going?" she panted after him, cursing under her breath as a branch slapped her in the side of the face.

"The most likely place," he replied irritably, not pausing to be sure she'd heard him.

Up ahead, the sudden cry of the horse pulled Crane up short, followed by the crackling sound of electricity. Crane bounded forward with a renewed burst of adrenalin.

In the clearing before Pandora's ruins, the Horseman and the goddess were engaged in immortal combat. Crane hid behind a tree, watching wide-eyed as Pandora sent bolts of energy at Abraham, who deflected them easily with his ax. He rode toward her then, barreling down upon her with all the power of Death behind him. With a mighty effort, he hurled his ax, and it spun through the air with an evil hiss. But with one wave of her hand, the dreaded weapon fell short of its mark, embedding itself instead into a nearby tree. Pandora summoned her strength for the kill, easily flinging his rifle away when he removed it from the holster on his back.

Crane felt a horrible déjà vu accost him, and, without a second thought, he circled round the battleground to retrieve the Horseman's ax. By this time, Jenny had caught up to him, and she looked on in horror as she watched her friend head into the fray.

"Crane!"

But either he didn't hear her or he ignored her, for as Pandora began to bombard the unprotected Horseman with bolts of supernatural energy, he was attempting to free the ax from the tree. But it was much more difficult for Crane to retrieve it this time, and he struggled, cursing and sweating to remove it. Jenny joined his effort, pulling on the long handle beside him, careful to avoid the blades at the lower end.

Crane glanced over his shoulder to see that the Horseman had fallen to his knees under Pandora's onslaught, and, his heart dropped into his stomach. Was all this to be for naught? The Horseman of Death was the only thing he knew that could defeat Pandora, and with him gone…No. This was not acceptable. Crane put every last ounce of strength he possessed to pull out the infernal broadax.

"Come forth you cursed ax!" ground out Crane in Latin.

And then, the instrument began to move.

Like the myth of King Arthur's sword, the ax eased from the tree as a hot knife through butter, the entire weapon becoming too hot for them to grip. Crane and Jenny howled in pain, then stepped back as the ax magically flew end over end through the air toward its master. Unfortunately for Pandora, her head was in the way.

There came the sickening sound of the hot blade searing through flesh and bone, the acrid smell of burning flesh filling the air as Pandora dropped like a stone to the forest floor, the Horseman's ax embedded now in her neck and back.

The swirls of energy evaporated into the cool night air, and the forest was quiet once more. Hearts pounding madly, their breathing ragged, Crane and Jenny made their way gingerly to the dead goddess, who lay face down, dead leaves her diadem. Crane felt for her pulse in her still-warm wrist, but she was indeed, most sincerely dead.

Abraham, his grisly skull having rolled some distance from the battle, still glowed with an eerie light as Abraham weakly turned toward it. He rose on shaky legs and moved toward Pandora's body. Placing one Hessian boot hard upon her back, he leveraged his broadax before dislodging it violently from the corpse. Jenny and Crane both flinched involuntarily in disgust. Next, the Horseman picked up his head from where it had fallen, and tucked it under his arm like a gruesome football.

"I've fulfilled my end of the bargain, Crane. In exactly a fortnight, there will be no moon. On that day, we can perform the rite, and you can sever your soul from Katrina's forever."

"On point of fact," Crane began, holding up one finger, " _I_ was the one who released the ax, so in truth—"

The Horseman raised said ax meaningfully toward Crane, the sharp blade once again glowing red in reflection of his fury.

"Never mind," Crane amended. "I agree to the terms. Shall we meet here?"

The Horseman turned his ghostly head, looking around the clearing before Pandora's lair.

"This will do. And don't fail me, Crane, or your beloved Miss Mills will suffer for it."

"You have my word, Abraham," said Crane solemnly. The Horseman scoffed, but climbed back on his horse and rode into the night.

"What do we do with her?" asked Jenny, nodding toward Pandora. She'd been quiet through the entire exchange between Crane and the Horseman, patiently biding her time till the moment he would tell all, as promised.

"I don't know. What does one do with the corpse of a goddess?"

Jenny shrugged. "Burn or bury, same as everybody else, I guess."

"Do you have a shovel in that monstrous contraption you drive around in?"

She chose not to take offense, but grinned instead. "Yes, I do. Two of them, as a matter of fact. In our line of work, you never know when you might have to bury a goddess."

Jenny started to move in the direction of her vehicle, when Crane stopped her.

"Wait. I have a better idea."

"What? Because I don't have any matches on me."

"No, not that. There is, however, the matter of Pandora's box," he said. "We must look for it inside the ruins. She was able to keep people captive inside of it. Perhaps if we hurry, there is still time to deposit her inside as well."

He went over to Pandora's body, and, lifting her beneath her arms, began to drag her toward the nearby ruins, frowning as her blood soiled his clothes and boots. Jenny rushed over to help.

"You mean, _the_ box?" she said, taking the dead woman's feet. "The _actual_ box that is supposed to release misery into the world?"

"Indeed, Miss Jenny. A relic like that should not be allowed to fall to the winds. Who knows what evil might take possession."

"Well, yeah, I can see that. Let's find this thing."

They carried Pandora together.

They found the fathomless pool inside, flickering torches reflecting in the water, just as Crane had remembered it. Absent was the tree that would have acted as a portal to another dimension, had Pandora's plan been allowed to succeed. He was happy beyond measure that he had also saved Abbie her horrible experience in the Catacombs.

They unceremoniously dropped the corpse on the old stone floor.

"I will attempt to summon the box with a spell that I know worked before."

From his eidetic memory he recited the Norwegian rhyme that Nevins would have someday used to access the box to fulfill The Hidden One's nefarious demands.

From the pool arose Pandora's box, where it floated above the water expectantly. Crane hesitated, nonplussed at the sheer power emanating from the silvery vessel in bright waves, the air literally humming with its suppressed energy.

"Now what?" whispered Jenny.

 _Now what, indeed?_ He too was at a loss.

But he had to try something.

"I command you to take back your mistress Pandora, body and soul!" he said, in his most forceful tone.

Much to his and Jenny's surprise, the glowing box opened its lid and immediately began converting Pandora's body to a glittering stream of pure energy, sucking it into its dark interior. When her body had completely disappeared, the lid of the box slammed shut, and the box fell to the floor with an unceremonious clang. The ethereal glow surrounding it disappeared, and all was quiet.

"Well," said Jenny. "That was a bit anticlimactic."

Suddenly, the box began to hum once more, the sound becoming exponentially louder with each passing moment.

"Pardon me, Miss Jenny, but I think we needs must run…"

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Battered, tired, and still a bit rattled, Jenny took Crane out for the promised beer. They both drank deeply before Jenny turned to him expectantly.

With a resigned sigh, he related the bare bones of the events surrounding his travel back in time, though he refused to tell the true reason why, explaining his desire to change as little of history as possible, except where Pandora was concerned.

"…suffice it to say, I thought to end Pandora's reign of terror before it started, and after your sister's successful visit to the past using Katrina's spell, I felt it worth a try, to-to save the many lives The Hidden One was bent on destroying. Now, without Pandora, I am hopeful that his reappearance on the earth will have been thwarted."

"And will you go back? To the future?" She smirked a little at the allusion.

"You mean like in the movie?" he asked, smug with himself that he understood the reference. "I—well, I hadn't given it much thought, actually; my only for the last few weeks has been of your sister. I mean- to find a way to make things right in the future for her—for us all."

"But how are you here alone? I mean, why aren't there two of you in this time period?"

"I've no idea. Perhaps a soul can only exist in one plane at a time. Perhaps my earlier self was combined with my later. I'll leave it to your modern scientists to speculate on the space-time continuum, as it were."

Jenny shrugged. Fine with her. She only hoped he was right and they could avoid the complication of finding another Crane. One was bad enough. She smiled into her beer.

"There was a little more to it than that though, Crane. I heard what you said to the Horseman, if only from your side of the conversation. There were two lives you wanted to save. Was one of them my sister's?"

"Yes," he said simply.

She nodded. That certainly explained his tremendous risk in attempting to alter the future. She would have done the same to save Abbie's life. "And the other life was mine?"

"In a way," he hedged. "I beg you, though, ask me no more. I fear already what might come now, since you know so much."

"Okay. I get it."

They were silent again, both relaxing into their beers, the night's terrors slowly seeping away. Then Jenny had a sudden thought.

"You know, we could make a lot of money off this situation."

"What?" He cast a suspicious, sidelong glance at her, and he knew immediately the kinds of questions she was about to ask.

"Who wins the next Superbowl?"

"Absolutely not," he proclaimed, his voice low so as not to be heard over the jukebox and the general hubbub of the bar.

"Oh, come on, Crane. What could that possibly hurt?"

He narrowed his eyes dangerously, but she was by no means dissuaded. "Okay, then, who wins the presidential race-? Wait. No, don't tell me. I'm not sure I want to know."

"When I left, it had not yet been decided," said Crane. "Now, enough of this, if you please."

"So, you have come from only a few months ahead then."

"Miss Jenny—"

"All right, all right. I'm stopping."

"Thank you."

They drank in companionable silence, each absorbed in their own thoughts.

"You need to tell Abbie about this, you know," Jenny ventured.

"I most certainly do not. Nor do you, I might add. Can't you see how we could alter the future even more? You must promise me you will be silent on this matter. I know it will be difficult—for both of us—but to further protect her, this is what we must do. Besides, with the changes we have made already, I really can't predict what lies ahead now, and in a few months, when this timeline has caught up with mine, all will be moot, and perhaps then I can freely tell her. Until then…"

Jenny sighed. "Fine. But this really sucks."

"Indeed."

They asked the bartender for another round, and once that was finished, they agreed they were both zapped of strength after their earlier excitement, and so, called it a night. Jenny drove Crane back to Abbie's house, and he hopped gracefully out of the SUV.

"Thank you for the lift," said Crane. "As well as for your help in the clearing."

"That's what friends are for."

"Well, I continue to be in your debt." He bowed his head in sincere gratitude. He shut the car door and walked round the front of the vehicle.

"Hey, Crane," she called from her open window.

"Yes?"

"Lottery numbers?"

"Good night, Miss Jenny," he said to the incorrigible young woman. But he was smiling as he made his way up the steps of Abbie's house.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Something was definitely off with Crane, thought Abbie, as she climbed the same steps Crane had two hours before. Throughout the night's earlier stakeout, as she'd watched and waited for a break in the case that didn't come, she'd thought of him and the new awkwardness between them since he'd gotten back from England.

They had left things on a solemn note nine months ago, after Abbie had watched him lose his entire remaining family. She didn't blame him for needing to get away, to lick his wounds among people who sounded like him in a place he used to call home.

She had missed him every day he had been gone, but she had stopped texting him when he'd stopped replying. She wasn't the kind of woman who hounded someone who didn't want to be contacted. She could be patient. He would come back. When they met again at the ICE detention center, she'd guilt-tripped him a little bit, just to mess with him, just to let him know that brushing her off hadn't been cool.

What Crane didn't know was, Abbie had known exactly where he was from the moment she'd lost contact. A British friend of hers from college worked with the Metropolitan Police Service outside London, and she'd called in a favor. She'd received updates on Crane's whereabouts once a week, so she knew he was okay. This she had done for her own sanity. Plus, it had kept her from jumping on a plane and tracking down his sorry ass.

Maybe her own anger and worry had brought about this change in the air between them. Maybe it was his guilt at leaving her. But it didn't change the fact that there had been a couple times since they were reunited that he'd looked at her differently, and not in the witness-buddy sort of way she was accustomed to.

What's more, he was touching her. Not that he never had before. They'd hugged, touched each other on the arm or shoulder in a casual, friendly, or comforting way. He'd even taken her hand on a few occasions, but it had never made her entire arm tingle as it had earlier today, when he'd pressed his lips to her knuckles. And he certainly had never made her heart leap when he'd looked deeply into her eyes. But what she'd seen there in those solemn blue irises could only be classified as _longing_ , and no self-respecting woman wouldn't respond to that.

Whatever it was, she thought, remembering how his mouth had felt on her skin, it unsettled her. With these new emotions he was stirring within her, all was not right with her world. She and Crane were destined to remain partners, not lovers, right?

 _Right?_

The vision of his mouth upon her, the long eyelashes resting against his high cheekbones, made her shiver, and she hesitated before she put her key in the lock of her front door.

"Right," she confirmed aloud. Nothing would happen between them unless she wanted it to. She resolutely pushed aside the brief thought that perhaps becoming Crane's lover wouldn't be so bad.

She opened the door and went in, and the aroma of something heavenly greeted her before the kitchen's occupant even had a chance to.

"Aw, Lieutenant," said Crane. "I hoped you would arrive soon. Dinner is still warming in the oven."

"Dinner?" she said with a skeptical smile. "You cook?"

He was wearing one of her mother's old aprons, and she had to admit that he looked adorable. She liked the shorter hair he was sporting now, especially with the light dusting of flour near his right ear. To hide her appreciation, she turned and removed her jacket, then her sidearm, laying the latter on the table in the foyer.

"Yes," he was saying. "My father employed a French chef, and I would sneak into the kitchen when no one was looking. He taught me all manner of cuisine, both Continental and English, said any many worth his salt could whip up an omelet for his lady. But today, as a thank-you for your hospitality in letting me stay here, I have made for you a pigeon pie."

From the oven he produced a beautifully browned, savory pie, the filling bubbling through the vents in the top crust. At Abbie's look of horror, Crane chuckled heartily.

"Sans pigeon," he finished, setting the pie down on a trivet on the kitchen counter. "With nary a squab to be found at the grocer's, I settled for chicken."

She looked visibly relieved. "Well…it looks pretty good. But you didn't have to wait for me. I told you I would be late."

"Nothing was going to stop me from spending my first night back with you," he said softly. She looked from the pie to his earnest expression, felt her face grow warm. She could think of nothing coherent to say.

"Sit, please," he said, taking two plates from a cabinet. She complied, climbing on a bar stool at the counter. He expertly cut two large pieces of the chicken potpie, and her mouth watered at the amazing smell. Vegetables and meat swam in a creamy sauce, and the crust looked flaky and perfect. She could never in a million years get hers to do that. _Was there anything this man didn't do perfectly?_ She watched as Crane filled two wine glasses from a bottle in the refrigerator, and handed one to her.

"Might I propose a toast," he asked politely.

"Sure," she said, finding her voice. She cleared her throat nervously. He was making her _nervous_. _What the hell?_

"To my dearest friend and partner. For her hospitality in my time of need. For her rye humor. For her lovely eyes. I drink to thee."

"Thanks," she said softly, clinking his glass before draining hers in one long draught. After one drink, Crane set down his glass and watched her, his eyebrows raised in surprise.

"Difficult evening?" he asked, when she slid her empty glass toward him for more. He obliged her, but his face displayed his concern.

"More frustrating than difficult," she said. This time she controlled herself and only took a dainty sip of her wine. "The new information we got didn't pan out. I'm wondering if someone is tipping them off that we're watching them."

"This…crime ring you mentioned?"

"Yes. They're involved in some pretty destructive stuff. Drugs. Guns. Human trafficking…"

"Different kinds of monsters," he said, remembering a similar conversation when he'd first arrived some months before.

"But monsters nonetheless," she maintained.

"Yes."

He joined her at the counter, sitting next to her as they both dug into their pie.

"Wow," she said over a hearty bite. "This is actually very good."

"You doubted me? I feel I should take offense at that."

She took a drink. "Please don't. Even in our day, it's unusual for an ordinary man to cook so well."

"I have always been out of the ordinary, Miss Mills."

She smiled. "Yes. A man ahead of his time."

He looked startled at her statement, but he covered it up neatly with a drink of wine.

"It's just an expression, Crane."

"Oh. Of course."

They continued to eat in silence, and it seemed to Abbie as though something were on Crane's mind, that maybe he was waiting for just the right moment to tell her what it was. Something disturbing, she thought, her brows knitting, if the tension in his shoulders and the way he only picked at his delicious dinner were any indication.

"Ok, Crane. What's up with you? Since you've been back, you've been…well— _weird_."

"Perhaps I have been," he acknowledged. "But it's only because I feared I would never see you again, and now, here we are, together again. It's somewhat disorienting."

"Why would you think you'd never see me again? You hadn't planned on coming back?"

His silence spoke volumes.

"Oh."

"In complete candor, I had briefly chosen to give up my life in America, to try to make my way in the country of my birth. We're no longer at war, you know. The Revolution has been long forgotten, at least in England."

"What made you come back, then?" she asked, staring down at a chunk of carrot. She was surprised at how hurt she was by his admission.

He didn't hesitate. " _You_ , Abbie. You are the only reason in the world that I am here, right now, in this place and time. I grew to miss you, you see. So much so that I ached inside with the pain of it."

"Crane—"

"No. Wait. Let me speak, before I lose the courage."

He swiveled his bar stool around to look at her, and he reached for her hands. She set down her fork and let him.

"Our time apart has made me realize a few things. Firstly, that I know I lack the heart to go on without you. It was torture, the thought of never seeing you again. Never hearing you make sport of my clothes, or roll your eyes at my wild theories or impetuous conclusions. Never hearing you laugh, or seeing your smile."

He reached up now to touch her cheek, and Abbie felt as if what was about to happen might well be the most momentous of her life. His long, graceful fingers were lightly callused at their tips, and for some reason, the feel of them against her face made her tremble.

"And secondly," he continued, in that mesmerizing voice of his, "you must know that there is nothing I wouldn't do for you, no sacrifice too great. I'm sorry again for making you suffer those nine months. If it helps to know, I suffered too, beyond measure."

She didn't know what to say. He was throwing a lot at her at once, some of it painful, some of it what she had secretly longed to hear, but it was difficult to sort out the one from the other, especially with him so close to her. She needed a little distance—ironic since she'd been mad when _he'd_ sought distance from her.

She gently slid her hands away, and picked up her fork and plate.

"If you'll excuse me; I'm tired. I think I'll take this to my room, watch a little TV, and hit the sack. Thanks for dinner. It's wonderful."

She got up from the bar, her heart pounding.

"Abbie—"

"Please," she said simply, looking into his eyes. She knew he must see the vulnerability there, the confusion, for he nodded in understanding.

"Very well. Good night, Lieutenant."

"'Night, Crane. And for what it's worth, I'm very glad you're back."

"That, for me, is worth a king's ransom," he said, and his smile was wry.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Only after he had heard Abbie's bedroom door close and the muffled sound of her television, did Crane allow himself to let go the breath he'd been holding. He put both hands in his hair, closing his eyes and bowing his head with relief.

She should have no doubt of his feelings now, he thought. And with Pandora gone, their future together seemed limitless. He had accomplished what he had meant to do, and now, all that remained was to allow Abbie to come to the obvious conclusion: she loved him too, and they were meant to be together as more than just friends and witnesses. He could afford to be patient now, and while he knew there would certainly be more evils to face, more trials to undergo, they would confront them together, as it was foretold they would.

He felt suddenly famished, and attacked his pie with as much fervor as he had in freeing the Horseman's broadax. She was right, he thought in satisfaction, it _was_ delicious.

He had just deposited his dirty dish in the sink when Abbie came rushing from her room, her eyes wide with shock. She held her cell phone limply in one hand.

"It's Special Agent Granger," she said, as he looked at her askance. "My boss- he's been killed."

"What?" he exclaimed, no less horrified than she. This was not supposed to happen. Without Pandora and her minions in the world, Granger should have been saved.

"It was a car wreck. Drunk driver on the wrong side of the road. He died instantly."

"My God."

"I know. He was a good man, had a wife and two young kids..."

Two things occurred to Crane in that moment. Number one: if one was meant to die, perhaps nothing could prevent it. And two, next in line for Granger's job was Daniel Reynolds, a man with whom Abbie had unfinished romantic business.

Crane couldn't decide which realization frightened him more.

 **A/N: I hope you enjoyed this chapter. I would love for you to let me know what you think. More very soon. Thanks again for reading.**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: My thanks again for the incredible reviews! They continue to inspire me to continue writing.**

 **Chapter 4**

Abbie was at work long hours over the next two days, for while Granger was gone, the criminals didn't observe a proper mourning, and Abbie had to help pick up the slack until a replacement was sent from Washington, DC. The crime ring investigation was put temporarily on hold, but Abbie had volunteered to sort through Granger's paperwork, finish a few reports for cases she had worked closely with him.

It was a good excuse not to be at home and face Crane.

She knew he was generally in his bedroom reading by nine o'clock each night, so she slipped into the house carefully at 9:05. The second night of this, however, and Crane came out of his room in his pajamas and robe (dressing gown, as he called it) to greet her warmly, looking tousled and boyishly handsome. Well, a boy with a sexy beard that drew attention to his beautiful mouth, she thought, then felt her face grow hot at her wayward thoughts.

"We've been ships passing in the night recently," he was saying, smiling as he prepared them both some chamomile tea without her asking. "I didn't want to rise, to find once again only the foamy wake leading to your bedchamber."

She had to smile—his wittiness had been one of the things she'd always lov— _admired_ about him.

"Sorry. Work's been crazy. And the funeral is tomorrow, so there's also been a strange pall over everything."

"Yes, I would imagine so. I take it Agent Granger was well-admired?"

Abbie shrugged, dunking her teabag. "He was respected."

"Aw. I've often wondered which I would rather be—admired or respected."

"I'll take respect any day," she said, sipping her tea. "As a woman in a mostly male-dominated profession, that's the greatest compliment I could get."

"I have no doubt, Lieutenant, that you are _both_ , in equal measures."

She snorted softly, but she couldn't help glowing inside at his obvious sincerity.

"I'm the new kid on the block; jury's still out on that."

He didn't argue with her, but one eyebrow shot up skeptically. He sipped his own tea, and she felt his blue eyes upon her, considering. It made her fidget uncomfortably, but the feeling wasn't exactly unpleasant. She was finding that she _liked_ him to look at her, and that was actually more disconcerting. Either way, he was confusing the hell out of her.

"Might I go with you tomorrow, to the funeral?" He asked suddenly.

She gave him a look of surprise. "You didn't even know the guy."

He hesitated for a fraction of a second. "True, but I'd like to attend with you, for moral support."

"Sure. I guess. It's at two at the Presbyterian Church."

He nodded. "I shall be there."

They finished their tea, both of them unusually tongue-tied. She took a final sip and took her cup and saucer to the sink.

"Thanks for the tea, Crane, good—" 

She found her upper arm suddenly encased by his warm, strong fingers. She was startled into meeting his eyes

"Abbie," he said. "I have the distinct impression you've been avoiding me since our talk the other night."

"Work's been—"

"Crazy," he finished. "So you mentioned." He cleared his throat, and she saw, to her amazement, that he seemed just as nervous as she was. "I didn't mean to alarm you, to frighten you by my confession."

"Confession?" Had he confessed something she'd missed?

"Of my deep, abiding regard for you."

She was relieved. "Of course not. I was flattered."

"Flattered?" he said, his tone almost horrified. 

"Well, yeah. A girl always likes to hear that she's appreciated, that she was missed."

He was nonplussed. "I think you have misunderstood me entirely. But that is my fault, of course. We come from different eras. In my time, such words from a gentleman would mean-"

Her hand came up to cover his on her arm.

"Crane," she said sternly, stopping him now, genuinely afraid he might make what would amount to an unmistakable confession, even in the twenty-first century.

"Please—don't say something that you can't take back."

His eyes searched hers, and she saw the hurt there, at the same time she wondered if he could see the fear in hers. But by the way his hand dropped in disappointment, she knew he'd reached a sad conclusion. He thought she was not interested in what he was offering. This wasn't true at all, but she let him think so anyway.

It was easier this way.

He grew painfully formal.

"I am sorry, madam, for misinterpreting your returned interest. I won't trouble you again on this matter. And now, I shall bid you good night." He inclined his head coolly, and left her alone in the kitchen. She watched him until he disappeared down the hallway, a lump arising in her throat.

She wanted with every fiber of her being to call him back, but she hadn't been able to muster the words. She was an FBI agent, for God's sake. Where was her courage?

Now, maybe things would go back to normal, she thought, trying to comfort herself. Crane was home, they still lived in Sleepy Hollow, where evil was bound to rear its ugly head very soon, and they would have to come together as witnesses to fight it.

She felt guilty for thinking this way, wishing for something bad to emerge, but Abbie was also a person who panicked when things became less predictable, less manageable in her life. As a child, she had felt completely out of control of her own destiny. Now that she was an adult, and knew her place in the world, she had a difficult time when things didn't go as planned. It took her awhile to adapt to change.

The feelings that Crane was stirring within her made her feel a little like Alice falling down the rabbit hole. The things around her looked familiar, but there was a cockeyed texture to them, and she couldn't escape the vertigo of it all. So it was better, _safer_ , not to obey the signs, not to risk what could happen to her if she tasted the sweetness he offered her.

Wasn't it?

Yes, she thought, pushing her doubts aside. She wanted normal. _Needed_ normal. She didn't need the handsome Englishman's heartfelt words.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

After a fruitless half-hour, Crane tossed down the book he'd tried to read in his room. Normally, _Secrets of Necromancy_ would have been a fascinating read, but tonight, there was no way in hell he could focus on anything but the memory of Abbie's face when she'd rejected him.

He imagined himself getting out of bed, walking down the hall to her room, knocking on the door. She would answer, probably in a bathrobe, her hair wet from her shower. He wouldn't allow her to speak beyond his name, for he would take her mouth, and her full lips would fit perfectly to his. He closed his eyes, feeling his body quicken in reaction to the fantasy, his hands gliding over his own chest as he thought about touching hers through her robe, and he could almost feel her naked leg bending, as she raised it to knee him hard in the twiddle-diddles.

His eyes flew open as the likely ending to his romantic scenario played out painfully in his mind. He shuddered and pounded his innocent pillow in frustration.

Nothing was going as planned at all, he thought, so why in the world would a seduction plan work either? Crane turned off the light and lay in bed, reveling in a rare moment of self pity.

He tried to console himself with the thought that at the very least, Pandora and the Hidden One were no longer an issue, and he supposed that whatever his personal desires, he might have saved the world. But somehow, that was cold comfort, and he hated himself for feeling so selfish.

He had certainly been in much worse straits before, he thought, trying to see the bright side. In his first life, he'd become a traitor to his native country, then nearly frozen and starved at Valley Forge. He'd had close calls in battle, and had actually _died_ at the hand of his best friend, but he'd come back from that. Not to mention what had transpired after he'd been reborn in _this_ century, the trials he'd faced with two Horseman, the impending apocalypse, the loss of his wife and son. Zounds, he'd even travelled back in time and destroyed two gods! Given all that, how could he possibly give up now? 

He bolted upright in his bed, turned on the light again, and took out the notebook and fountain pen he kept on his bedside table for such nighttime epiphanies. He began passionately to scribble out a plan, the words coming to mind much faster than his pen could write.

"No, Lieutenant Mills," he muttered as he wrote, "your polite disregard of my feelings will not dissuade me. I am Ichabod Crane, master of Time, slayer of demons, conqueror of the Apocalypse, pre-ordained witness of the Last Days. Prepare to face an onslaught that would put Mollock's wrath to shame!"

These kinds of self pep talks always gave Crane a necessary boost of confidence.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Sleepy Hollow Presbyterian Church was suitably filled for a man of Special Agent Mick Granger's stature and reputation. Abbie hadn't known her supervisor for long, but she had respected him, was sorry for his family, sorry for the Bureau. She found a pew toward the middle of the chapel, nodding to a few other agents, straightening her black skirt as she settled in for the service. A few moments later, and Crane joined her, her heart skipping a beat as he smiled gently at her before sliding next to her on the bench seat.

She'd wondered if he'd come, given their conversation the night before. She had barely slept for thinking about it, wondering if she'd made a mistake, if it was too late to take back her rejection. His seeming good humor confused her.

"How are you?" he asked softly.

"I'm fine," she said cautiously.

"I'm glad of it."

The minister began the service and Abbie found it very touching and dignified. Crane seemed to feel the same, and when his leg pressed into hers on the cramped bench, she felt a thrill rush through her at his nearness. His hand rested atop hers on the bench, and she didn't move it—didn't want to.

While the choir sang, he bent his again to whisper in her ear, his warm breath stirring her hair. She shivered involuntarily.

"After the service, allow me to buy you a cup of coffee at that café that charges usurious rates."

She grinned. "Starbucks?"

"Precisely."

She found herself agreeing, and the idea of simply sharing a cappuccino with him seemed so…normal. They could get past this. Absence had merely made their hearts grow fonder. Once things settled down, once they'd become used to one another again, all would be as it was before.

"Okay," she whispered back.

She didn't notice Crane's wide smile—completely inappropriate under the circumstances.

xxxxxxxxxxx

After the funeral, the attendees milled around outside the church, subdued, though anxious to talk as people are wont to do on such somber occasions. Crane was contemplating the plan he had decided upon the night before. The only thing he could come up with to ease the tension between them was to kiss her and be done with it. But it would have to be at the perfect time, the perfect kiss. Abbie must be completely at ease, and it should happen so naturally that she would wonder later why they hadn't kissed long ago. He would kiss her sweetly, gently. He'd be tentative, allowing her to decide how intense it should become, leaving room for her to advance or retreat as she desired.

He would start by taking her somewhere as innocuous as a coffee shop, where they would talk of pleasant, unimportant things. Maybe he would casually suggest dinner. Pizza. She loved pizza. From there, they might go for a stroll in the park and—

"Danny."

Crane groaned internally, for of course, Daniel Reynolds had made his appearance, as if on cue. The tall, broad-shouldered man walked toward them, and Crane could see plain as day the pleasure on his face at the sight of Abbie.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, smiling that bright smile Crane had always thought was reserved only for him.

"You hadn't heard? I'm your new boss."

Her smile dimmed slightly, but Crane fancied he was the only one who noticed. She was none too pleased that her former classmate from Quantico had already surpassed her.

"Oh, well congratulations," she said graciously. "You've got pretty big shoes to fill with Granger, though."

"So I've heard. This all happened pretty quickly. I just got into town an hour ago, made it here for the tail-end of the funeral. I'm still trying to get my bearings."

"Yeah, I'll bet. Special Agent in Charge already," she mused. "Who would have thought?"

Crane watched as they smiled into each other's eyes, felt the slight hum of the chemistry between them. This time, however, he wasn't going to stand idly by and allow anything to rekindle between them. He cleared his throat meaningfully.

"Oh, sorry. Ichabod Crane, meet Daniel Reynolds. We were at Quantico together."

It was as if Reynolds just noticed Crane, and he surreptitiously eyed him, looking a little befuddled at his eighteenth century garb. Reynolds did have to look up a bit at Crane, who barely resisted puffing out his chest and holding his head higher in what he knew would be an immature attempt at showing himself the dominant male. Then again, Crane recognized that Reynolds's biceps were twice the size of Crane's. And when they shook hands, Crane's hand completely disappeared inside the big man's paw.

"Crane is my—" Abbie continued, hesitating slightly.

"Partner," Crane finished for her. "And _very_ close friend."

Abbie caught Crane's eye and frowned, but he pretended to ignore her.

"Partner?" asked Reynolds, trying hard to hide his concern with that moniker.

"Yeah. Crane is an independent uh, historical consultant. We used him a lot when I was with the sheriff's department."

"Oh. I see. Interesting."

"And I humbly offer my services to your Bureau, should you ever require them."

"I'll keep that in mind," said Reynolds, politely dismissive. He turned his attention back to Abbie. "Hey, since I'm new in town, I'd appreciate a tour when you get the time. I haven't had the chance to familiarize myself with the place, and right now I'm in a hotel room until I can find an apartment or something nearby. I'd appreciate your suggestions on the best places to start looking."

"Sure," she said.

 _What a lame attempt at courting,_ Crane said to himself. _How painfully obvious of him._

"Hey, we were just about to go get some coffee. Would you like to join us?" asked Abbie.

 _Bloody hell._

"I'm sure Agent Reynolds would like to go back to his inn and relax," suggested Crane helpfully. "I understand through recent experience that jet lag can be very trying."

"I drove," said Reynolds, and he smiled, but directed the brunt of it toward Abbie. "And a latte sounds really good right now."

"Still drinking that sissy drink, are you?" teased Abbie.

They began walking toward the church parking lot, and Crane found himself trailing awkwardly behind them.

"Yeah, yeah," said Reynolds. "I know you like yours black…"

They both burst out laughing at the inside joke that Crane was obviously not privy to.

"Did I mention Abbie and I are housemates?" said Crane, hoping he didn't sound too desperate.

They'd arrived at Abbie's SUV, and the trio stopped. Reynolds failed to hide his jealousy at Crane's sudden announcement.

"Oh, really?" he asked tightly.

"Yeah, Crane recently came back from England to find his former place occupied. I offered him one of my spare rooms"—she gave Crane a warning glance—"for _now_."

"Yes, Abbie is very generous with her closest companions," Crane said, and he put an arm about her slim shoulders, surprising her with his boldness. It would have seemed the height of rudeness if she shrugged him off, so she didn't, but he felt her stiffen unhappily beneath his arm. He wondered if he'd gone too far.

"Well, uh, since you don't know your way around, you want to ride with us?" Abbie offered, with that aforementioned generosity. Sometimes her kindness was rather infuriating, thought Crane.

"Sure," said Reynolds. "That'd be great."

"I'll drive," said Crane, dropping his arm reluctantly from her shoulders and moving toward the driver's side of the SUV.

Abbie rolled her eyes at him, but tossed Crane the keys. He caught them handily and walked round to the driver's side. To his consternation, the remaining pair got into the back seat together, leaving Crane to act awkwardly as chauffer. He'd thought Abbie would have taken the front passenger's seat, but she had purposefully foiled his plan. He met her eyes in the rearview mirror, and had they been alone, Crane had the distinct impression she would have stuck her tongue out at him. He supposed it served him right, acting like the jealous fool as he had. He felt suitably humbled.

"So," Crane began good-naturedly, "shall we advance to the Starbucks on 9th Street, or the one on Main?"

She nodded in approval at his change of tone. "Main," she said.

Perhaps all was not lost, thought Crane hopefully as he started the engine. Reynolds might be interloping on their trip to the coffee shop, but Crane would be the one going home with Abbie later.

 _Score one for the Englishman_ , he thought in satisfaction.

 **A/N: I know some of you expressed your dismay at having Reynolds make his appearance in this fic. But I'm sure you've watched enough TV to know that sometimes a love triangle is the best way to bring out a character's true feelings, though I plan not to take the serious, painful route in getting there. Besides, I like the idea of a jealous Crane. Also, this might be the time to tell you that I always give my stories happy endings, so fear not on that count, all you Ichabbie shippers!**

 **More on the way. Thanks again for reading.**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Your reviews continue to inspire me. Things are starting to heat up now, and I hope you like where I take this chapter.**

 **Chapter 5**

As it happened, the coffee had to be postponed, as Agent Reynolds received a call from the surveillance crew monitoring the Anaconda crime ring. That break Abbie had expected had merely been postponed, apparently, and a major deal was going down that afternoon.

"Sorry, Crane," she said, as she took over the driver's seat from Crane before pulling away from the FBI field office. "Rain check?"

She had dropped Reynolds off with the understanding that she would continue on to join the surveillance van.

"Aw, as we are not attending a rained-out baseball game, I assume you mean you will make it up to me at a later date."

Abbie rolled her eyes and shook her head in amusement. "Yeah, that's what it means. I'll take you home."

Crane's mind began working double time as she drove them toward her house.

"Might I come along with you? It's not like I haven't done so before…"

She shot him a glance as they stopped at a stoplight. "Uh, well, that was when I was with the sheriff's department. I'm in the FBI now, and I'm not sure Reynolds would approve."

"I have learned something quite valuable from the twenty-first century," said Crane, "that it is much easier to apologize later than to ask permission beforehand. Besides, it would be faster to go right to the van, would it not? Your comrades are waiting impatiently for your arrival, and you wouldn't want to jeopardize the mission by sparing the time to take me home…"

"Crane," she began, but then she didn't know how to continue. He was right, about the timing, at least. From tapping one of the minion's phones, they knew their crime leader was on his way to the warehouse where methamphetamine was manufactured. They also knew the crime ring was expecting a shipment of young girls meant to be used in the sex industry. All of this was coming down at the same time. If the FBI timed it right, they'd be able to take out the leader _and_ save the girls, plus catch Chang with enough meth to put him away for years.

"All right. But you stay in the car, understood?"

"Completely," said Crane. All he knew was that he wanted to be where she was, wanted the pleasure of working with her, being close to her, even in the midst of danger. It was danger that had brought them together after all, had made them friends and partners.

The surveillance van was parked half a block away on a quiet street, though it was within sight of the warehouse in the industrial district of Sleepy Hollow. Abbie pulled in behind the white van, emblazoned with the logo of a local paint manufacturer.

"Stay put," she said, before getting out. "If anyone drives by, duck."

She didn't wait for his reply, and Crane sat in the passenger seat, agitated and annoyed as he watched her knock on the rear van door and gain entry. He tapped his fingers on the dashboard, looking outside the vehicle, scanning the area. Sitting in Abbie's SUV alone was not very conducive to further development of her romantic feelings.

"Blast," he said under his breath.

Five minute passed, when suddenly a yellow Humvee sped by. Crane barely had time to hunch down in the seat before the vehicle went past toward the warehouse. Two men, heavily armed, jumped out, followed by another man dressed in an expensive suit. Of course, from the SUV parked behind the van, Crane wouldn't have been able to see that, so he'd gotten out of Abbie's car, her extra service weapon from the glove box in hand. Quiet as a church mouse, he snuck over to stand behind the van to peep around it. Seconds later, a large moving truck followed after, and Crane quickly moved to the side of the surveillance van near the curb, hopeful that no one had seen him.

Inside the van, Abbie and two other agents gazed at the monitors from the hidden cameras they'd planted at the warehouse. They watched as the moving truck backed up to the loading dock, and the driver got out. Meanwhile, the occupants of the Humvee went into the warehouse via a side door. Abbie and her team could only hear low mumbling over the speakers in the van, but there was no doubt the head of Anaconda had arrived.

"That's Chang all right," she said of the crime lord. "The girls are probably in the truck. The minute you lay eyes on them, call it in."

"Yes, ma'am."

She got out her phone and texted Crane.

 _We're about to move in. You okay back there?_

Abbie waited a full minute, but received no answer. She went to the window in the back of the van, lifting one bevel of the mini-blind to peak out. Crane wasn't in the SUV.

"Dammit!" she said aloud.

Her thumbs moved swiftly over her phone keys. _Crane, answer your damn phone! Where the hell are you?_

Suddenly, women's screams echoed from the monitor inside the van from outside in the warehouse, followed closely by the report of several rounds from an automatic weapon.

"Call it!" ordered Abbie, pulling out her Glock.

"Jones, come with me."

She and Agent Jones emerged from the van, weapons drawn. They almost ran into Crane, who was just about to knock on the van door.

"I told you to stay in the car!"

"My apologies, Lieutenant. See how that works?"

More screams, and Abbie didn't have time to debate. She realized that whatever was going on inside that warehouse, those women were in trouble, and they didn't have time to wait for the rest of the unit to arrive. And, she realized, she might need an extra hand from an experienced soldier like Crane.

"Come on," she said to him. "But stay behind me."

"With pleasure," he replied, not escaping the frown she sent at how lewd his remark had sounded. He shrugged innocently, but his eyes sparked briefly with embarrassment. He didn't miss Agent Jones's smirk, however.

The minute it took to make it to the warehouse seemed an eternity, for each step seemed to be punctuated by both feminine and masculine screams. By the time they arrived, all was horribly silent, and Abbie and Crane sensed that something had happened of an even more sinister nature than what mere mortals could do to one another.

Abbie turned her head and glanced back at Crane, and both could tell they were on the same page on this. Given other things they had witnessed in Sleepy Hollow, this was bound to be terrifying to the extreme. They tightened their hands on their weapons.

The loading bay door had been slid open, and the trio approached with extreme, unspoken caution. Abbie first looked inside the open truck, relieved to see a press of cowering young women, extremely frightened, though very much alive. One of the girls caught Abbie's eyes in the dimness, and pointed a shaking finger toward the opening of the warehouse. Abbie nodded, then silently directed the other two to follow her into the warehouse.

What met them had them all gasping in horror. Blood was everywhere, and the bodies of the four Anaconda members, including Lorenzo Chang, had been thrown about like rag dolls, their mutilated bodies bloody and torn apart. Some corpses were decapitated or missing limbs. Others, though it was difficult to figure an exact number—likely workers in the meth lab—were arrayed around the dank warehouse in similar fashion, weapons rendered useless on the cement floor. All were clearly dead, with no sign of the person or thing that had killed them so brutally.

The three of them looked around the large open space, found a side room where the meth was cooked, and an old office where the finished drugs were stored. They could find no one, and a quick search around the outside perimeter of the building yielded them nothing. By this time, the rest of the unit had arrived, Reynolds among them, and they met at the front of the warehouse. Abbie explained all that had gone down.

"Holy shit," said Reynolds after touring the crime scene.

"Yeah," agreed Abbie morosely.

"What's _he_ doing here?" asked Reynolds of Crane, who was walking back toward the loading dock.

"He's had experience with crime scenes, so I thought it would be more efficient to just bring him along."

"Not protocol, Mills," he said, his voice clipped. "Involving civilians…"

"Sorry, sir. But he can actually be useful at times."

"Unless he can tell us who might have done this, he'll only be in the way. First priority is to find an interpreter for those girls in the truck."

But Crane had beaten them to it, for when they came out of the warehouse, Crane was speaking to the women in perfect Chinese.

Abbie supposed she shouldn't be surprised anymore by anything he could do.

"What did they say?" asked Reynolds with grudging respect.

Crane didn't risk looking at Abbie when he spoke.

"It was a very large man," he said. "With red skin."

"Just one man?" asked Reynolds in disbelief.

"That's all they saw. They said he didn't threaten them in any way; just focused on their captors."

"Hm," said Reynolds. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't go far in case we need to question them more, Mr. Crane."

"Certainly, Agent Reynolds. I would be happy to."

Later, Abbie found a quiet moment with Crane.

"Okay, what did they really say," she asked softly.

His lips quirked at her perception. "Well, it _was_ red. But given that the women were not injured, I am thinking it was some sort of vengeance demon, or perhaps a protective creature of some sort. It would have to have been something supernaturally strong to have mutilated those bodies so heinously, so quickly. That, and the fact that the beast had horns and long talons and teeth."

"Probably wise not to mention those little details," she said wryly. "Reynolds is having a difficult time processing this. He hasn't said so, but I can tell he's blaming the team for missing the group of strong arms that would have to have been able to do this. He's in the van watching a replay of the video footage."

"It would be difficult to understand if you had no knowledge of the hidden world around us," agreed Crane.

"Take my car and get back to the Archives and start researching. I'll call if we need you."

"You sure?" he asked, his eyes darting toward the van where Reynolds was. He felt a keen sense of jealousy, and tried in vain to stifle it.

"Yeah. Thanks." She started to walk back toward the van.

"Lieutenant," he called, and she turned expectantly. "I've noticed—well, that—" He hesitated, feeling foolish, but unable to stop himself. "Is there something personal between you and Agent Reynolds?"

She lifted a warning eyebrow. "Mind your business, Crane."

He felt the very real déjà vu, recalling their similar conversation months before. This time, however, he would not indeed back off as he once had done.

"I feel that, in a way, as your partner, your fellow witness, that it _is_ very much my business."

"Crane—"

His hands came up to her shoulders as he stood before her, looking down into her annoyed brown eyes.

"I don't want you to get hurt, Abbie," he finished softly. "I don't think he is right for you."

He watched her eyes widen, first in surprise, then in confusion, before her entire face contorted to unadulterated fury.

"Over the line, Crane," she warned dangerously.

Her sudden anger with him only made him want her more, he realized guiltily, for when her eyes snapped fire and her full lips pursed, it took every bit of restraint not to kiss her, to compel her to forget about Reynolds, to focus only on what was between _them._ But her rage didn't seem to have the same arousing effect upon _her_ , and she jerked away from his grasp.

"I'll call you," she said again, this time, much more coldly, leaving him to watch after her as she joined Reynolds in the close quarters of the surveillance van, a hole in the pit of his stomach.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxx

It was difficult to focus on the historical and mythological tomes back at the Archives, but he forced himself to think on the blood bath he'd witnessed at the warehouse, effectively subduing his ardor. He still had to push aside the image of Reynolds and Abbie huddled together in the cramped space of the surveillance van, how _he_ would be the one smelling the floral scent of her hair, feeling the warmth of her body so close to his.

 _Holy God._

What worried him most was his fear that perhaps he'd miscalculated everything, that maybe Abbie and Reynolds were the pair meant to be together. He knew that things had become more serious between them shortly before her death, but he tried to reassure himself with the notion that she only had turned to Reynolds because Crane had not declared himself soon enough. Well, he thought, this was one of the reasons he'd travelled to this time.

An hour later, and Crane had found a promising lead on their supernatural beast. He was about to call Abbie when the lady herself appeared in the doorway, her expression blank, though the crease between her eyes was more pronounced, as if she'd been knitting her brows in agitation.

"Anything yet?" she asked without preamble.

He hesitated, trying to read her emotional state. When she was angry, she didn't usually hold on to the emotion for long, having told him once that anger hurts the angry one more than the subject of said anger. Apparently, at the moment, she was not taking her own advice. Distraction might be the remedy, he mused.

"Yes," he replied at last. "I believe our crimson vigilante was a Voyl, an ancient protector of Middle Eastern origin."

She joined him at the table in the middle of the large library. He could smell her delicate scent now, could feel her closeness. He felt his body grow warm, his heart pick up speed.

"Like a guardian angel with anger issues?" she asked.

He smiled. "Precisely. They are known to protect the innocent from the abuses of men and gods. They can read the hearts and minds of people to gauge the purity of their intentions. That is why it knew not to harm us when we arrived on the scene. Oh, and they have the power of invisibility as well as obvious superior strength."

"So this Voyl thing might have been in the warehouse with us all along?" She shivered a little at the notion.

"Yes, quite possibly," said Crane. "It chose not to be seen and made its escape without our realizing it."

"But why here, why now? It's not like Sleepy Hollow is the only place in the world to see people victimized. I've never heard of anything like this before, at least not on this bloody scale."

"We have seen that Sleepy Hollow is a magnet of sorts for the strange and supernatural. Perhaps the increase in human trafficking awakened the beast."

"What can we do to put it back to sleep?" she asked, and he was pleased that she was acting her usual self, that maybe her anger with him had dimmed.

"The question might be, Lieutenant, do we really _want_ him gone?"

She considered this a moment. "He certainly did our job for us. But much as I hate human traffickers and drug dealers, death isn't the punishment for these crimes, at least not in this country."

"It would have been in my day," mumbled Crane. "As were public executions."

"Be that as it may, that was then. What did you find out about taking it down?"

He leaned closer to her, the open book near her his excuse. It was not his imagination that he heard the soft whisper of her indrawn breath when his arm brushed against hers.

"It says here that the Voyl may only be seen when it's in the act of vengeance, which, despite its fierce power, is the time when it's most vulnerable. It can be killed, but only by a holy relic."

"You mean if I throw a Bible at it…"

Crane smirked at her sarcasm. "I don't quite think that's quite what it means, Lieutenant. However, neither is this information very specific. I must do further research."

Abbie, sighed, closing her eyes and pinching the bridge of her nose.

"I'll leave you to that."

Acting on impulse, Crane moved behind her to place his hands on her shoulders, doing what he had often longed to do over the years when he had seen her so tense. His deft fingers began to gently massage the tight muscles in her shoulders. At first, she tensed even more at his touch, but as he dug in his thumbs, she relaxed somewhat and even moaned a little at how good it felt, leaning her head back against his chest in helpless surrender to his hands. He wondered if she could feel the ragged pounding of his heart.

"I didn't realize…massage was popular…in the eighteenth century," she murmured.

"On the contrary," he said, his breath rustling her hair, "the art of massage began thousands of years ago, in India. During the 1700's, physicians still saw the benefit, though the practice was certainly frowned upon in public. In private, however…" His rich voice trailed off as he pressed in a particularly sensitive area, eliciting a groan from Abbie that went straight to Crane's groin.

He took another step closer, the feel of her strong body beneath his hands stirring him so that he wondered if this had been the best idea. Her closeness, the soft sounds she made reminiscent of the bedroom, were proving more of a temptation than he'd imagined.

"I'm sorry," she was saying, her head lolling forward to give him greater access to her neck. "For earlier. I—I overreacted. Your question about Danny took me by surprise."

His eyes became captivated by the deceptive daintiness of the smooth, dark column of skin she'd exposed to his touch, the contrast of the paleness of his fingers pressing against her.

"My apologies too," he said hoarsely, his throat tightening with stifled emotion, "for upsetting you. I did indeed cross a line. I am not sorry, however, for my concern for your welfare. I desire only your happiness, and you must know, that I didn't come back to you just to let you stray into the wrong man's arms."

"Crane," she protested breathlessly, and her head came up again, her hands coming up to cover his, stopping their relaxing movements. She turned to face him, but he didn't stop touching her. Instead, he lifted one long finger to brush the hair from her troubled eyes.

"I returned for you, Abbie. You must have deduced this by now."

She shook her head, but she didn't speak.

He raised an amused eyebrow. "You don't believe me?"

"I want to," she admitted. "But I don't know what that means."

"Perhaps I can enlighten you."

He lowered his head, his eyes fastening on her lips, then back to her eyes, now impossibly dark and not a little frightened.

"Cra—"

But his name was silenced by his mouth. The first taste of her lips was like a jolt to his entire system, and he shuddered involuntarily. He hesitated, his lips a breath above hers as he tried desperately to gain his bearings. Was this too much, too soon? Would he frighten her away—again? He wanted to pour all of his passion into this kiss, but his own reaction was making it difficult to go on with his plan, and he feared he was losing his chance to—

"Stop overthinking this," she said, and her small hand slipped beneath the hair at his nape, pulling him back down to her lips.

She was trembling too, but the feel of her hands on his body spurred him on, and he pressed his mouth more firmly to hers. She opened to him, and as his tongue slipped between her lips, he was irretrievably lost.

His mind became muddled, disjointed thoughts circling unbidden with spates of uncharacteristic blankness. He felt drugged by the sensuality of her full lips, by the warm, wet interior of her mouth, by the erotic sweep of her tongue as it tangled with his. He pulled her as closely as he could, given their difference in height, but teamwork had always been the hallmark of their relationship, and as she went up on tiptoes, he bent over to meet her halfway, encircling her waist and lifting her slightly as the kiss went on and on.

Her fingers tangled in his hair, her nails slid over his scalp, making him shiver, arousing him beyond measure. Nothing had prepared him for what it would mean to physically connect with someone whose spirit was so deeply entangled with his.

She was the one to pull away at last, gasping for breath, shaking, legs nearly too weak to stand. She held on to him, her head bent, while he struggled to find his wits.

"I uh, take it your anger with me has passed," he finally managed.

She chuckled quietly, her forehead against his chest.

"Well mine hasn't," said Jenny from the doorway. "So _this_ is what you traveled back in time for…"

 **A/N: Jenny, Jenny, Jenny. Well, the cat's out of the bag. I hope you'll tune in for the fallout. Thanks for reading.**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Some of you might have realized the site was acting wonky for a few days, and I couldn't access any reviews, though I could see by the review count they were there. I hope you were still able to read the last chapter. I wanted to be sure the site was fixed before I posted, so here is a much delayed entry. Again, I thank you so much for your patience as well as for reading and reviewing this fic. I'm glad many of you enjoyed their first kiss. More of that to come, I promise (and perhaps more than kissing later).**

 **Chapter 6**

Kissing Crane was unlike anything Abbie had ever felt before, but had often read about in her secret stash of romance novels. Just like the novelists' descriptions of the ravished heroines, she felt dizzy, breathless, passionate beyond measure, and he had only kissed her. Maybe she shouldn't feel so embarrassed to read those books anymore, now that she knew this kind of soul-wrenching connection was possible. And if kissing him was like this, she wondered if she'd ever survive making love with him...

Then, as when Alice hit the bottom of the rabbit hole, she was jolted suddenly from her sensual musings by her sister's voice. It took a minute for her to latch on to the conversation, and she looked up from Crane's chest in a lame attempt to focus as the pair argued over her.

"…you gave me your word," Crane was saying angrily.

"Not exactly," Jenny replied. "Use that perfect memory of yours and think about it. But that's not really the point, is it? Look at you, macking on my sister like there's no tomorrow. This is why you really came back, isn't it?"

"You have made my point for me, Miss Jenny," said Crane rather arrogantly. "There may, in fact, _be_ no tomorrow, despite our accomplishment in the woods. Or had you forgotten that as you witnessed yourself the power of Pandora's box?"

"I'll give you foiling that bitch's plans, but don't give me any more bull about just coming back here to save the world."

"Why are you doing this, Jenny?" Crane asked, his voice laced with unspoken agony.

"Because she deserves to know all your motives. She deserves to be with someone who doesn't lie to her. She's a big girl; she can take it."

"Can take what?" Abbie interrupted, as her addled brain finally cleared. "Will somebody please tell me what the hell is going on here?"

As if remembering her presence, the pair looked guiltily at Abbie.

"I was going to tell you everything," said Crane, " _in time_. Now I feel your sister has irreparably changed the course of history." He shot Jenny another heated glare.

"Oh, please!" Jenny said, broadly rolling her eyes heavenward. "You have no idea one way or the other, Crane—"

And so their bickering began anew.

Abbie broke free of Crane's arms so she could think a little better, and moved a safer equidistance between the two people she cared for most in the world.

"Stop it, both of you! Now, Jenny, you came in here all half-cocked about something. You go first-and I want the whole truth."

Crane fumed in annoyance but he remained respectfully silent as he allowed the lady to go first. Abbie half expected Jenny to stick out her tongue at her victory.

"Crane's first night back," Jenny began, "I saw Crane with the Horseman's head and a pistol, getting ready for an evening stroll. Naturally, I followed him."

It was Crane's turn to roll his eyes.

"And?" Abbie prompted, doing her best to ignore him.

"He and Headless had a little summit in the woods. They made a deal that he would return his head and give him Katrina's immortal soul if he defeated Pandora and her box of tricks."

Abbie didn't know what to react to first. She looked at Crane askance, but when he began to explain, Jenny picked up her story. "I came out from behind a tree after the Horseman rode away, but not before I'd heard that Crane here had used Katrina's spell to come back from the future to save the day."

Abbie's eyes went wide with surprise.

"Is this true? You are from the future?"

With another withering glance at Jenny, Crane sighed, running an agitated hand through his hair.

"Yes, Lieutenant, I am. And I was going to tell you all of it, in good time, when I thought the danger had passed."

"From this Pandora person? The mythological Pandora?"  
"Quite," he said. "Miss Jenny and I did help the Horseman rid the world of her influence, but your sister is right to say that I was not just here for that…"

When his words trailed off, Abbie tried to sort out her emotions. There were many reasons _not_ to go back in time, but the main one had to do with the unpredictable ways it could affect the future. Abbie couldn't believe he would have risked this unless what he was trying to alter was really, really bad.

"What other reasons, Crane?" she asked softly, her heart pounding in trepidation.

He started to say something, but Jenny interrupted.

"He obviously wanted a second chance to get in your pants."

"Jenny!" Crane and Abbie said her name in unison, equally outraged.

Jenny smiled at the reactions of two of the most straight-laced people she knew.

"Come on, Abbie. He's been in love with you for years, any fool could see that. But I get there have been distractions, like the apocalypse and his wife's reappearance. He won't tell me all the details of the future, but I have a feeling he wanted to be with you pretty bad—bad enough to risk coming back to this point in time. When I saw him kissing you, the idea that he wasn't being honest with you—well, you deserve better, Abbie, especially from him, for all that you've been through together."

"Crane?"

But he didn't direct his next words to her; instead, he looked at Jenny.

"It wasn't your place to tell her all this. Yes, I have my reasons for being here, and they are very good reasons, as you well know. But what you witnessed just now doesn't take away from the bigger picture, Jenny." His tone was heavy with a meaning Abbie didn't understand, and that, along with how her brain was spinning from what they were telling her, combined with the residual emotions from their kisses—it was all very overwhelming.

"I've been doing a little research about time-travel theories," Jenny replied. "And I tend to believe the idea that you can't really change the future, at least not a person's overall destiny. Getting rid of Pandora was definitely a good thing, but who's to say everyone that was in her path won't still get hurt anyway? When it's your time to go, it's your time. How can anyone prevent that?"

Crane nodded. "Granger," he said.

"What?" asked Abbie.

He looked at her sheepishly. "In the previous timeline, Agent Granger died also, though at the hand of a demon that came from Pandora's box."

Jenny gasped and her hands went to her mouth.

"What aren't you two telling me?" asked Abbie.

She looked at Jenny first, but as her gaze turned to Crane, she caught the barely perceptible shake of his head. A horrifying thought occurred to her, and the words came to her lips before she could help it.

"It's me," Abbie said. "I—I die."

By now, the tears were streaming down Jenny's cheeks in fast, silent torrents.

"Crane?" prompted Abbie.

"Yes," he said, the word ripped from his soul.

"How?"

"No, Abbie. Please, I beg you."

"How?" she repeated, holding his arm in a vicelike grip. "Tell me. I have a right to know, don't I?"

His own eyes watering, Crane forced himself to put voice to describing the worst day of his life. "You sacrificed yourself to Pandora's box, in order to stop her husband from taking over the world and destroying humanity. It was your choice, and you made it freely and willingly."

Abbie took this in, accepted it as truth. She knew this was something she would do. Her life was nothing compared to all of humanity, and she would gladly sacrifice herself to save it if she saw no other way.

"When?"

He seemed devastated by the question. "To what end must you-?"

"Crane," she said, her voice hoarse with suppressed emotion.

Crane turned away, unable to look her in the eyes. "April 8, 2016."

"Six months," she said numbly, as Jenny let out a strangled cry.

Crane stepped toward Abbie, his hands encircling her upper arms, his eyes blue fire as they blazed down into hers.

"Listen, Abbie, this could mean nothing, you understand? Granger's death could be a coincidence, or maybe it _was_ his time. But I came back here to stop Pandora because I believe your death was premature. It was prophecy that the two witnesses endure more trials than what we have yet faced. I am convinced your death went against the natural order of things. I have dispensed with Pandora, so it seems to me you are now free to continue on with your destiny—with _our_ destiny—together."

She stepped away from him then, and turned to her sister, who was quietly crying.

"You're playing God, Ichabod," she said softly. "You know there is always a price for this kind of thing. You may have brought about something worse."

"No, don't say that. We are witnesses, chosen by God, and it is written in Biblical prophecy that we will endure, no matter what may come. I don't regret destroying Pandora, saving so many others from her husband's wrath. And even if you never forgive me, I will not regret saving you as well. The world needs you, Abigail Mills, nearly as much as I. I know in my heart fate has much more in store for you, and one day, when it is actually your time to die, you will still be the world's savior, of that I have no doubt, and you most certainly will—will have been mine."

Her heart squeezed painfully as he stumbled over those last words. What he had done he had done for her as well as the rest of the world, but she didn't know whether she could forgive him for taking away her sacrifice.

"How long would you have let me believe in this fake reality you created?"

"I swear to you, after April 8th had passed, I would have told you everything. I wanted to spare you the pain of knowing what might have been. And, our reality now is _not_ counterfeit, I assure you. It is real. It is happening. What we have shared since my return is also what would have been ours in our other lifetime, had I not been such a blind fool."

"So we don't-?"

"No. And that was the real tragedy of losing you." He exhaled the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "And that, my dear Lieutenant, is the whole truth, so help me God."

Abbie peered up at him, still uncertain, still feeling as if she had been handed a death sentence. Nearly six months to the day. How many people knew their exact date of death?

"Not the whole truth, Crane. You said to the Horseman that there were _two_ deaths," said Jenny.

"I am not telling you the other," said Crane obstinately. "I didn't wish this fear and uncertainty upon Abbie; I would not for the world knowingly inflict this information upon anyone else. You may both feel free to despise me for that, but there it is. Another risk I will just have to take."

Jenny suddenly threw herself into her sister's arms. "Six months? Oh, God, Abbie."

"Shhh," Abbie breathed into her sister's hair. "We don't know that. Things might have been permanently changed by Crane's actions. I'm not going to live in fear, not for whatever time I've been given."

She gave Jenny one final squeeze, then gently pulled away from her embrace. "Listen to me. I'm going to go on about my life as if nothing is set in stone. I want you to do the same. Go, now. Crane and I need to hash things out, okay? I'll see you later."

Jenny nodded, wiping at her wet cheeks with the backs of her hands. With one last glance at the two of them, she left the Archives through the tunnel exit.

Silence reigned between Abbie and Crane, as each mulled over the drama of moments before. And yet, hovering at the edge of all of it was the memory of the passionate kisses they had shared.

"It isn't Jenny, is it?" Abbie asked when she was sure her sister was long gone.

"No," he said immediately, and she believed him. Anyone else, she would bear with her usual fortitude. But if she were to lose her sister…

Crane took a hesitant step toward her. "Abbie, I—"

But she held up a staying hand. "No. Time to let me talk a minute. I want you to know that I am pissed off to such a degree that I'm not sure yet if I'll ever get over it. But I get it. I understand. Had you been the one to die, or Jenny, I might have considered doing what you've done."

She saw the leap of hope in his eyes, and she felt the warmth of it begin to radiate throughout her chilled body.

"But this doesn't take away from how wrong you were to do it. I meant it when I said it was like you were playing God. We aren't supposed to get to do that."

"I would do it again, however," he said vehemently, moving to stand before her, "just to get this chance to be near you again. You don't know what I went through when you died. It was a living hell; a place I did not want to exist without you. At least now, if things go awry, I will have had this day. I will know what it felt like to touch you, to kiss you, as I have secretly longed to do for years. Nothing can take that from me now. And you must know, I will do my level best to keep you safe, to never fail you as I did before."

To his obvious surprise, Abbie reached up, caressed his beard, traced his firm mouth with one finger.

"I need time to wrap my head around all this," she whispered. "Can you give me that? Please?"

He nodded. "Of course. Whatever you desire. I am at your beck and call, Lieutenant, and will wait an eternity for any crumb you might afford me."

She smiled, then tiptoed up and planted a gentle kiss on his lips. She felt him tense in expectation, holding valiantly still, keeping his promise to give her time.

"How's that for a crumb?"

"That's more like the entire pie," he quipped, slightly flustered, but obviously pleased.

She moved to leave. "I'll see you at home, later," she said. "I should get back to work."

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Crane watched her go, happy that she may well forgive him, but fearful that all that Jenny had said was true. It had certainly occurred to him after Granger's death that after all this, he could still lose Abbie. He wondered if the pain would be even worse the second time around, after he had finally admitted his feelings for her, and he had discovered that she had similar feelings for him. She had to, given the way she'd kissed him.

He shook his head in wonder, pondering how the human brain could survive these extremities of emotion. Just days before he had been as one at the bottom of a well, and today, with Abbie's kiss, he had reached the top of a mountain. He was actually a bit relieved Miss Jenny had exposed him prematurely. While he regretted Abbie's pain and anger, he was coward enough to be thankful he hadn't had to confess it himself. There would have been no gentle way, he realized, to give someone this kind of news.

But whether he had six months or sixty years, he wasn't going to give up on his plan to win her, especially not now. He still held to the hope that the prophecy of old would prove true, and that he and Abbie would have years of happiness together as they confronted the tasks of the witnesses. But if six months was all they had together, he would make the most of it, and he would encourage her to do the same.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Abbie had just gotten to her car when her phone rang.

"Abbie," said Daniel Reynolds, "we have a situation. Bank robbery, hostages taken."

He gave her the name and address of the bank and all the details he had.

"I'm on it," she said, as she sat in the old sheriff's department parking lot. Something, perhaps a sixth sense borne of being a witness, occurred to her, and with a quick, indrawn breath, she called Crane.

"Lieutenant," he began upon answering, "I thought I wouldn't be hearing—"

"It's not about us, Crane. Look, I'm headed to a bank robbery. The thieves have taken about twenty hostages. If our demon is around, you think something like this might lure him out?"

He didn't hesitate. "Innocents being held against their will? Sounds precisely like a scenario it would welcome."

"You have any holy relics lying around that might work on this thing?"

He thought a moment.

"Clock's ticking, Crane."

"Yes," he replied. "Yes, I have something—"

"Well, grab it fast and get out here. I'm still in the car."

"On my way."

In less time than she'd expected, Crane arrived, carrying an ancient box. The moment he sat down, Abbie tore out of the parking lot.

"What is that?" she asked, both eyes on the road.

He opened the lid, and she glanced over to see a small piece of what looked like a shard of stone.

"It's believed to be part of the hip bone of Saint James."

" _That's_ your holy relic? I figured it would be a sword or something."

He shook his head. "Actually, _relic_ derives from the Latin, _reliquiae,_ which means remains, particularly human bones or a saint's possessions. I didn't have the time to further research how one might use a holy relic to destroy the Voyl, but I'm assuming that it must come into physical contact with it to work."

"So what you're saying is, we have to get close enough to tag a bloodthirsty monster with that thing? Are you even sure that's legit? I know people used to pass off animal bones for the bones of saints to make money off of gullible pilgrims. You'd better be pretty damn sure before we get within ten feet of Mr. Vengeance…"

"This was a gift from Mr. Hawley—and while that might make you even more suspect, I have had it examined by scientists, who determined it is in fact human bone, and the cloth it was wrapped in dates to the time of Saint James. Now whether it is truly from the saint, one can never be one-hundred percent certain, but included with the box was a letter from a twelfth century pope attesting to its authenticity. At the very least, it was blessed by a pope. I'm sorry I can give no more assurance than that."

She shook her head in a mixture of amusement and dismay.

"Well, we really have no choice at this point," she said. "But as a fellow witness, I only have one thing to say: you go first."

He met her eyes, and a warmth passed between them, a shared remembrance of when, not twenty minutes before, they had found a passion, a rightness neither of them had ever experienced before.

"I wouldn't have it any other way," he said softly.

 **A/N: Thanks for reading. I would love to hear what you think of my chapter.**


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Thank you again for your wonderful reviews. I really appreciate all constructive feedback, especially those who are kind and respectful. I admit I had a touch of writer's block for this chapter, which is the reason for the lateness of this installment. But I hope the last part makes up for it. To be warned, (and due to popular demand) it is rated M, so if that's not your cup of tea, feel free to skip it.**

 **Chapter 7**

When they arrived on the scene, it was much as they'd expected. SWAT, FBI field agents, and Sleepy Hollow PD were all there, gathered at a safely distant perimeter. If the Voyl was coming, it didn't seem as if the monster had made its appearance yet. Maybe there was till time. They exited the SUV, Abbie strapping on her bullet proof vest as they walked.

Agent Reynolds was talking calmly on his Walkie-Talkie, coordinating with the SWAT commander. When he saw Abbie and Crane, he paused, frowning at the man whom he deemed an intruder—for more than one reason.

"What's _he_ doing here?"

"He's very good at hostage negotiation," Abbie improvised. "Give him a vest and let him go inside. Trust me, sir; we haven't much time."

"No way I'm sending a civilian—"

Suddenly, the sound of screams tore through the air.

"Go! Go!" Reynolds yelled into the Walkie.

Crane caught Abbie's eye and nodded, his hand grasping the Saint James relic. Before Reynolds could stop them, Abbie and Crane fell in with the SWAT team, entering the bank along with them as they broke through the front door.

Inside was chaos, as the red-skinned Voyl had begun tearing apart the kidnappers. Gun shots from the shocked strike team, along with the remaining bank robbers pelted the creature, but to no avail. The hostages were huddled together on the floor, ducking down to avoid the flying bullets and the monster's wrath, many of them either screaming or silently crying.

When nothing seemed to stop the Voyl, Abbie yelled for the team to cease fire. Crane ran forward to the seething creature, who was advancing on the last remaining robber, blood dripping from its claws.

"Wait!" Abbie held her hands up, standing bravely before the team to prevent them from shooting Crane. The remaining robber had tripped and fallen on his backside, and was half-scooting, half crabwalking backward, screaming for his life as the creature continued toward him.

Crane came up behind the Voyl, recited something in an unfamiliar language, and it stopped its pursuit of the robber and turned around to confront Crane. Apparently the creature normally took no notice of interlopers who attempted to stop its mission of vengeance, but something in Crane's words halted it in its tracks. By then, Crane was close enough to touch the beast, and he stood bravely in front of it, smelling the foul stench of its hot breath. Abbie froze, uncertain what she would do if this didn't work.

She saw Crane swallow hard, his Adam's apple bobbing in terror, though he stood his ground. The creature seemed confused; he could sense that Crane was not the enemy, but his strange words gave it pause. Before he lost his nerve, Crane spoke a few more words of the strange language, then he pressed the bone against what he hoped was the Voyl's heart.

With a roar of fury, the creature looked down at its own chest in surprise, before disappearing with a flash of red light.

The occupants of the bank were immediately silent, rather like the sudden absence after a violent storm. Everything had happened so fast, it was hard to process what they had witnessed.

Abbie ran over to Crane, who was looking down at his hand. The bone was nothing but dust now, sliding uselessly through Crane's fingers.

"Looks like it's one-time use only," she said, her heart pounding.

Crane looked up from his empty hand, his own pulse still racing, and he felt himself begin to tremble in delayed reaction. He hadn't even thought of the danger he'd been in; he had only known he must destroy the Voyl before it killed anyone else.

"What's going on in there?" came Reynolds's voice over the ear piece of the SWAT team commander, so loud in the silent room that even Abbie could hear it.

By then, the team members had recovered their senses somewhat, and were prying the weapon out of the remaining robber's hands, arresting him, and seeing to the condition of the hostages. As with the other of the Voyl's visits, none of the innocents had been harmed.

"Situation is under control," responded the agent to their boss's demand. "We've got two suspects down, no apparent injuries to the hostages."

Crane and Abbie now stared about them, at the splattered blood and ghoulish remains of the other two victims of the Voyl's wrath. The commander walked over to Crane and Abbie.

"What the hell was that thing?" he said, sliding the protective goggles to the top of his helmet.

"A vengeance demon," said Crane simply.

"Oh. Right," said the agent, not even pretending to comprehend. "Well, whatever you did to it—good job."

Crane nodded. Agent Reynolds entered through the frame of the smashed in front door, stepping over shards of glass to come in and survey the scene. After taking in the blood and gore of the victims, his eyes zeroed in on Abbie and Crane. He strode purposefully toward them, and Abbie's spine stiffened. This wasn't going to go well.

"Didn't I just tell you no civilians?" he said, his voice heavy with barely suppressed fury.

"Sorry, sir. There was no time to explain."

Crane spoke up, attempting to back her up.

"The creature who did this could only be stopped by me, Agent Reynolds. Lieutenant Mills did what was needed to be done. She acted with laudable valor to-"

"Creature?" interrupted Reynolds. "What _creature_?"

"There's a lot of strange stuff that goes on in Sleepy Hollow," said Abbie softly. "Ask them," she continued, nodding to the rest of the team. "I'm sure they have seen things in this town they can't explain. I know I have. I brought Crane because he's an expert on supernatural beings. He was able to destroy the thing that did this."

Reynolds looked at them in disbelief, but then his eyes fell once more on the carnage, his gut telling him there was no way human beings could have done such a thing, not in such a short amount of time; his head telling him Abbie and Crane had to be nuts.

"The creature who did this was the same thing that took out Anaconda," continued Abbe. "It preyed on those who hurt innocent victims."

It was obvious Reynolds had a million questions, not to mention an equal number of doubts, but he realized this was neither the time nor place to talk about such things.

"As soon as things are settled here, Mills, I want to see you in my office."

Without further acknowledgement of Crane, Agent Reynolds left them to go speak with the SWAT commander.

Crane and Abbie went out of the bank the way they'd come in, both walking back toward the SUV.

"What the hell did you say to that thing?" Abbie asked him as they sat tiredly in the vehicle.

"I went with a hunch," he said. "I spoke ancient Aramaic, told the Voyl to stop, that vengeance was only for Almighty God. Then I promptly took revenge and attacked him with the relic." He grinned at the irony.

"Well, thank God your instincts were right. And thank Hawley, wherever he is, for also getting it right about that relic."

"Indeed. Should we ever meet again, I shall kiss the man on both cheeks."

Abbie laughed, imagining it.

When she stopped laughing, it was only because she noticed he wasn't sharing in. His gaze was focused on her mouth, then her eyes, then back to her mouth. Seeing him in such danger with the Voyl had frightened her more than she might have imagined. It was their earlier kiss, she knew, that had brought these feelings to the fore, not to mention the fact that they had just been reunited after nine months apart. Losing him again seemed unbearable to her now.

 _So much for needing time to deal._

"Another demon down," she said nervously, reaching for something casual to say.

"Perhaps a million to go," he said wryly. "We are a good team."

"Crane—"

"Abbie—"

They spoke at once.

"Ladies first," Crane said, inclining his head.

"Well, we-we should probably talk about what happened between us earlier."

"Yes," he said, feeling his heart begin to trip against his ribs.

She looked at him then as he had only imagined she might in his dreams. She was nervous, but her eyes were glowing with emotion, and one small hand had slowly come to rest upon his on their shared armrest. Her fingernails slid absently over his knuckles, and he felt her touch rekindling the fire in his blood.

"We should talk," she whispered again, as she leaned over toward him. "But I've not a clue in hell what to say."

"Then by all means, Lieutenant, let's not waste time bandying words."

Perhaps it was the rush of adrenalin from confronting the Voyl; perhaps it was the realization that they had once again escaped the very clutches of death—whatever it was, neither of them were in the mood for explanations. Their lips met and clung across the center console, and any words they might have spoken became suddenly and beautifully unnecessary. Their position in the SUV was awkward and uncomfortable, the steering wheel digging into her side, but neither of them minded; all that mattered was the give and take of lips and tongues, while hot fingers tangled in soft hair or glided over sensitized skin. Just as before, their world was reduced to only the two of them, to the amazing way their mouths fit together, with no coherent thoughts to interfere with how it felt to experience this gift.

Their kisses were sweet and hot and unbearably frustrating. Making love in the front seat of her car was not an option, but Crane couldn't seem to slow down the impulse to do just that.

"Let's go home," he breathed against her ear. Abbie shivered, then moaned as he nipped her earlobe. She thought she might melt into the floorboard, but as much as she wanted to honor his request, she didn't know if she was capable of driving.

"God," she said, when his hand cupped her breast through her t-shirt, his thumb brushing over her nipple, "what are…we…doing?" She became aware then that, although they were some distance from the scene, anyone could see them through the windshield, locked in a passionate clinch like teenagers. She pulled away almost violently, and they both fell back against their seats, breathing hard and shaking with arousal.

"From now on," said Crane, "feel free to speak with me without the cumbersome necessity of words."

She turned her head against the seat to look over at him, chuckling breathlessly.

"Can I get that in writing?" she asked, thinking of the myriad number of times she wished he'd shut up and get to the point.

He grinned sheepishly. "I shall endeavor to take my own advice."

He reached for her hand, holding it between both of his before bringing it to his lips. Her face softened, and he could feel her ragged pulse at her small wrist.

"As much as I would like to finish this _conversation_ at home, you heard Reynolds. He wants me back in his office soon."

"I am certainly disappointed, but I fully understand. Perhaps you could drop me at the Archives. I can always find something to occupy my mind there."

The only drawback was there was no cold shower there to take the edge off his unfulfilled desire; but he wasn't about to tell her that.

"Okay," she agreed, but she didn't move to start the car, didn't tug at the hand he still held in his. Then a thought occurred to her. "You were about to say something earlier, before…"

He had intended to confess his love for her, to tell her that he never wanted to be parted from her again, to beg her forgiveness for deceiving her. But the moment had passed, and he decided the ambiance of an SUV's interior was not the proper place for such a confession, any more than it was the best place for more than a quick tupping.

"It can wait. Kissing you, madam, has quite discombobulated me," he teased.

She rolled her eyes, then, reluctantly removing her hand, she started the car.

They were quiet on the short drive to the Archives, but the air hummed between them, and he couldn't help touching her arm and gazing at her with such hunger that she very nearly pulled over. She stopped in front of the old building and clutched her steering wheel so she wouldn't reach for him.

"Now, if there are no more emergency monster calls, I'll see you at home later," she said.

"I shall count the minutes" he replied, and somehow the line that was considered clichéd in this day and age, seemed completely sincere coming from him. The lingering kiss he bestowed on her cheek warmed her all over, the softness of his beard sensual against her skin.

"Bye," she said.

"Good-bye, my love," he dared to say, and her eyes widened at the endearment. He got out of the car, his eyes lingering on her as he closed the door between them.

She watched his graceful, long-legged stride as he walked away toward the secret entrance to the Archives, her heart squeezing as his tall figure disappeared from view. She could no longer deny to herself or to Crane how much she loved him, and she fully intended to tell him despite any lingering reservations about his motives for coming back in time.

Somehow, none of it really mattered anymore.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Everything was going so much better than Crane had expected, despite his secret coming out sooner than he had planned. He was so close now to having everything he wanted, after risking so much to get there. It was a little frightening, knowing that once before it had all slipped so easily through his fingers.

"I'm sorry, Crane," said Jenny from the doorway of the Archives. "It just came out." He looked up from the book he wasn't reading to see that she was with a companion—Joe Corbin—and he resisted the urge to run to the young man and embrace him wholeheartedly. He reminded himself that at this point in time, he had only met him once before, after their first encounter with him as a wendigo.

"You certainly released the proverbial cat from its bag. Master Corbin, a pleasure to make your acquaintance once again."

"Crane," he said, still with a touch of standoffishness, still angry with the world for a father who seemed to have cared more for Sleepy Hollow's supernatural presence than for his own son. If time went along in the manner it had before, Jenny Mills would change him for the better, and he would become the warm, caring, brave man Crane had known him to be at the end.

"I told Joe what happened, and where you're from; or should I say _when_?"

Crane frowned. "Was that really necessary? You remember the chance you're taking by doing such things."

"I know. But Joe's a part of this now. His dad wanted him to carry on the fight against evil. Well, the fight starts here."

"Quite," said Crane. He looked at Joe. "Are you up to this, young man? When last we met, you weren't quite sure of anything."

"That's fair," said Joe. "But thanks to you, Jenny, and Abbie, I think I can handle whatever this town throws at me."

"Good," said Crane. It was very difficult not to fall in to the more personable tone they had shared in the months before his death. He recalled how close they had become when Abbie had been trapped in the Catacombs, and he hoped that in this rewrite of history they might fine that companionship once more—sans an absent Abbie.

"Well, anyway, I wanted to apologize," said Jenny. "I get why you came back. I understand your motives were pure. And I also wanted to thank you for saving my sister."

"It is my greatest wish that I have succeeded, but time, as they say, will tell." They both grew solemn at the uncertainty of everything, how ironic it was that despite having lived in the future, things had become once more completely unpredictable. Jenny pasted a brave smile on her face, wanting more than anything to have faith that he had changed the future for the better.

"I know I interrupted you and Abbie earlier," she said, in an attempt to lighten the mood. "You seemed very…cozy."

Crane felt his face flush despite himself. He covered it by replacing his book on a shelf, his back to them for a moment so that he might pull himself together. He turned coolly back to his guests.

"Well, in the wise words of your fair sister, 'mind your business.'"

Jenny laughed. "Okay. I see how it is. Look, aside from my apology, we're here because Joe wanted to ask you a question…about the future."

Crane shook his head. "Not for all the tea in Boston Harbor. We've been over this before, Miss Jenny. I will not discuss the results of the Superbowl, nor shall I give any inside tips on the stock market-"

"Nothing like that," interrupted Joe. He looked at Jenny, who nodded in encouragement. "A few months ago, Abbie sent a recommendation for me to Quantico. I haven't heard back yet. I wanted to know if that's ever going to happen. I've already gotten a job as an EMT, but should I stop hoping? I mean, should I give up my dream of becoming an FBI agent?"

Crane nearly sighed with relief. It was difficult enough looking the man in the eye while knowing the exact date of his demise, without having also to give him career advice.

"I have no knowledge of your standing with the academy, Master Corbin," he said. "I do know that you will come to find fulfillment in your present occupation, and that your skills have proven helpful to us in future. Truthfully, that's all the information I have become privy to in that regard."

"Oh," said Joe, understandably crestfallen.

A phone call took Jenny away for a moment, and she moved toward the corridor for privacy. Crane couldn't resist the opportunity to speak to Joe alone.

"I will, however, impart a word of friendly advice." Crane glanced at Jenny, who was chatting softly to someone—probably Abbie—and he lowered his own voice. "If you are hesitant about speaking your true feelings to a certain lady, I urge you not to make my same mistake and put it off. Time is fleeting; do not waste it."

Joe's eyes rested with naked longing upon Jenny, and Crane was not at all sorry for his interference.

"So, Jenny and I-?"

"Yes," Crane confirmed. "But I must say you took long enough to go about it."

Joe flushed. "She's not exactly an easy woman to pin down."

"It is the Mills woman curse, I'll wager. The Lieutenant is not exactly Miss Jaw-me-down, if you take my meaning."

Joe didn't, exactly, but he nodded anyway. They shared a smile, and Crane was warmed by what he hoped would be the start of the friendship they had shared up until his death, which Crane prayed now would not occur until long after his and Jenny's children had children of their own.

Jenny finished her phone call and joined the two slightly guilty-looking men.

"What's goin' on with you two?" she asked suspiciously.

"I believe you call it male bonding," said Crane. "Was that Abbie who called?"

Jenny smirked at his abrupt change of subject. "Yes. We're good. And she updated me about this Voyl thing you guys just ended. Why'd you leave Joe and me out of the loop?"

"Events happened so quickly, there was no time, I'm afraid."

"That's what she told me," said Jenny. "At any rate, I'll tell you what I told her. You two lovebirds have my blessing—not that you've asked for it. And I admit it's sort of a strange match, but somehow, it works."

"On the contrary, Miss Jenny, your blessing does mean the world to me. But everything is very new, and I don't wish to frighten your sister away by pushing my suit too prematurely. As you know, I came back for her, and I don't intend to muddle things up as I did the first time. I suggest you heed my advice as well."

She looked confused by this, but despite that, she didn't question him further.

"Well, uh, okay. Anyway, Abbie said to tell you she'll be home as soon as she can. You ready, Joe?"

"Yeah," he replied. "Thanks, Crane."

"You're very welcome."

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

It was dark by the time Abbie came home, and as she trudged tiredly up her front steps, a creaking of the porch swing had her hand moving automatically to her holster.

"Don't shoot," said Crane. "It's only me…and an innocent beer."

She squinted and saw him more clearly now, the light from inside the front window giving him vague form in the darkness.

"Jesus, Crane. You should know better than to do that to me."

But she joined him on the swing, and took the bottle of beer from his hands. She took a long swig and handed it back half empty. He shook it, and frowned, but enjoyed the idea of her lips having been on the bottle as he took another drink himself.

"My apologies for the fright. Did you speak with Agent Reynolds?" he asked, as she settled against the back of the swing, her legs rocking it gently to and fro.

"Yeah. I explained a little what you and I do here, but understandably, he has his doubts. He questioned his team and some of the witnesses at the bank, and they all said the same thing—a monster had ripped those poor robbers apart, and you made it disappear. It's a lot to take in. He'll need some time, and, unfortunately, more exposure to Sleepy Hollow's best before he completely believes."

"Hmm," said Crane. "I hope he wasn't too hard on you."

"No," she said. "Though I've never seen him that riled before."

"Part of it must be his residual feelings for you," he ventured boldly. "And his jealousy of your new house guest."

"I'm not talking about that with you," she reminded him, but she wasn't angry, so he dropped it.

They rocked quietly, sharing the beer.

"You told me goodbye here," he said. "Or at least I think you did."

"You're gonna have to explain that one, Crane."

He stretched his arm across the back of the swing, and she settled against it. He tried to ignore the thrill of touching her, but failed. He cleared his throat.

"After you—you died, you visited me in a dream. It was here, on this porch, in this swing. You told me to move on, but at the same time, you didn't want me to give up hope. When I awoke, I knew you were gone from me, and I could hardly bear it. Life suddenly had no meaning for me. Nothing was right in the world anymore. I even thought for a moment that some demon had taken your form and bedeviled me to let you go. But I know now it really was you, that you were telling me somehow that you knew your death was wrong too, that I must find a way to get you back."

"And here you are," she said.

"Yes."

She finished off the beer and handed the empty bottle to him.

"Would you like me to get another?" he asked.

"No. I need a clear head for this."

"For what?" he asked, trepidation and excitement warring within him in equal measures. He set the bottle on the railing behind them.

She stopped rocking the swing and turned toward him in the dimness. "I've been thinking today about my death."

"That's understandable." Despite his calm, her words gave him a chill.

"Like I told Jenny, I'm not going to live my life in fear or dread, but I am going to live what time I have—no matter how much—going after what I want. And I—I want you."

"You do?" he said lamely.

"Yes. And I think from the way you kissed me earlier, it's a safe bet you want me too."

"Yes," he said, his voice hoarse with sudden desire. But she had not made a move toward him, and he was worried that this was all another dream, or that maybe she was teasing him, and what she was offering was about to be cruelly torn away from him.

"So what I'm telling you is, let's not waste this second chance." She stood now, and the loss of her weight set the swing rocking gently. He looked up at her, not daring to hope, as she extended her hands to his. He was finished hesitating, and took them gladly, rising to stand before her. She felt the immediate current pass between them, felt the innate thrill of having a strong, handsome man accepting what she was offering.

He bent his head and kissed her, and just as before, their mutual passion immediately took hold. This time, there was not a car console between them, and neither of them would brook any other interruptions. They kissed on the porch until they were shaking and breathing unsteadily. His hands were on her bottom, pulling her close enough to feel his need pressing insistently against her stomach. She gasped in surprise when Crane picked her up in his arms and took her into the house, kicking the door shut behind them. He strode purposefully toward her bedroom, her mouth at the _V_ of his shirt, his lips in her hair.

He set her down on the bed, and she rose up on her knees, smiling at their sudden matching heights. She took the initiative, slipping her hands beneath his heavy coat, and he helpfully shrugged it off, where it fell forgotten to the floor. She began at the laces of his blousy shirt, then untucked it from his breeches, their breathing loud in the quiet, dimly lit room. He pulled it up over his head, and she smiled at how the movement caused his hair to stick out in all directions. She couldn't resist reaching up to smooth it, but then she got lost in the feeling, got lost in his hot kisses as his lips returned to hers.

Before she could think, Crane was cupping her bra-encased breasts beneath her t-shirt, and he grinned against her mouth when he brushed against cold steel beneath her light jacket. He paused, giving the gun a light tap. Chuckling sheepishly, she took off her own jacket, then made quick work of her holster before placing it in his waiting hands. He took the weapon and set it gently on her bureau.

"This is a first for me," he said in amusement. " _Literally_ disarming a woman before I bed her."

When he turned around, she was naked from the waist up. His eyes fastened unabashedly upon her gently rounded breasts, before, speechless at her beauty, he met her sparkling dark eyes. She reveled in her newfound power over him.

"Cat got your tongue, Crane?"

"Aw, Lieutenant," he said, finding his words, "not quite yet."

Then said tongue found her puckered nipples, and she drew in a shuddering breath as he laved each bud in turn, before taking them gently between his teeth. Her hands moved mindlessly over his naked shoulders, gliding to his back, then up to his head, where she held him even closer to her chest. His hair and beard felt amazing against her bare skin, and she moaned blissfully.

Soon his hands had wandered to the fly of her jeans, and he unbuttoned and unzipped, his mouth still fastened to her breasts. His hands slipped inside the waistband above her backside, gliding over her silky panties.

Women's undergarments were certainly different in these times, he marveled, kissing his way back up to her full lips. Her hands were busy too, unfastening his breeches, releasing his hard fullness to her touch. He couldn't help the gasp of pleasure that escaped him as she gripped him, sliding her hand from the damp tip to as far down as she could reach inside the placket of his pants. He released her mouth and looked down to where she held him.

"Abbie…dear God…you're driving me mad."

"Take off these damn breeches and I'll put an end to it," she said against his mouth.

"I highly doubt that," he muttered, and he sat down heavily on the bed.

She released him so he could bend to remove his high Hessian boots, and with a soldier's efficiency, he disrobed completely, removing his smalls and then breeches and long woolen socks. She stared at the male beauty revealed to her eager gaze. His muscles were firm and defined, his buttocks— _double jugs_ , she thought with a grin-dimpled and pleasantly rounded. A good dusting of hair decorated his chest, stomach, and thighs, as well as the nest at their apex.

He joined Abbie at last on the bed, kissing her mouth with abandon, reveling in the feel of his chest against hers. He kissed his was back to her breasts, following the valley between them to her tightly muscled stomach, to the top of her gaping jeans.

"Would you like some help with these? I would be happy to oblige."

"Please," she said, desperation lacing her voice. He removed her boots, then pulled her tight jeans off from the legs, taking her panties with them.

"Abigail," he said, in awe, "you are perfection."

Her gently curved hips, her small waist, her strong thighs, had completely redefined his 18th Century perception of beauty. His hands skimmed over her body, starting from her dainty feet, moving up to her knees, her smooth inner thighs (she trembled gratifyingly at his touch), to the shockingly bare skin of her mons. He traced the waxed triangular outline just above her sex, completely uninhibited in his exploration.

"Is this common?" he asked curiously, though his heart pounded loudly in his ears.

"Welcome to Brazil," she said breathlessly, his teasing fingers heightening her arousal to a fever pitch.

"Aw. In my day, it was all the rage in France…but I never personally…hmmm…interesting…"

"Can we dispense with the history lessons in the bedroom please," she said tightly, as his fingers moved lower, sending her hips up off the bed.

"Right," he said, amused by her frustration. "Perhaps you'd be more interested in a demonstration in…physiology."

She would have thought, given his outward modesty, that he might have been shy in the bedroom. Not so _this_ Ichabod Crane. She was pleasantly surprised when she felt his hair against her inner thighs, felt the first soft kiss where his fingers had once been. His tongue soon followed, and Abbie felt transported by pleasure. He was relentless, continuing on patiently until she cried out twice before begging him at last to stop. She lay on the bed, panting and spent.

He stretched out beside her, his long frame reaching from the head of the bed to past the foot. When she'd recovered somewhat, she turned to look at him, his eyes closed, a smug expression on his handsome face, though he was clearly still aroused. Abbie immediately saw this as a challenge.

Crane's eyes flew open when he felt the first touch of her hand, saw the erotic picture of her mouth joining in on the sensual torture. When he was nearly to the point of no return, he pulled her almost roughly beneath him, entering her quickly with a hiss of ecstasy. They moved together as one, the immense pleasure driving them higher together, until they cried out their release.

"I love you," he whispered against her damp neck, still buried deep within her. "More than life itself, I love you."

"I love you too," she managed, and hugged him tightly to her trembling body.

 **A/N: Thanks for reading. If you choose to review, please log in so I might answer you directly.**


	8. Conclusion and Epilogue

**A/N: This is the last chapter of my story. Once again, I'd like to thank the readers who left reviews, favorites, and follows. I appreciate the support, and hope to see you again in future fics.**

 **Chapter 8: Conclusion and Epilogue**

"I must say, rocky road ice cream is perhaps the best invention in modern times," said Crane, licking the cold chocolate from his spoon. They sat in her bed, a carton of ice cream between them, the digital clock showing just after three a.m. Abbie watched him devour his bite with as much ecstasy as he had devoured, well…the thought had her leaning forward and kissing his mouth mid-bite, their lips cold at first, but quickly warming.

"Hmm," he hummed in male satisfaction when she sat back against the headboard. "Delicious."

She grinned and dipped her own spoon in the carton. Making love half the night was a hungry business.

"So, better than cars or airplanes or computers?" she asked, picking up on his pronouncement.

"Perhaps I exaggerate," he conceded. "But right now, all I require in this world is this bed, this ice cream, and thou."

She rolled her eyes. "You are so poetic."

"I admit your charms have made me so.

'An hundred years should go to praise  
Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze;  
Two hundred to adore each breast,  
But thirty thousand to the rest…'"*

Crane recited these passionate lines in his best professor's voice, his eyes focusing on each part of her body the poem mentioned, warming her from within. Then he took another spoon of rocky road.

"I know that one," she said, pretending to be unmoved. She pointed her own filled spoon at him accusingly. "That poem is about a guy trying to get into a girl's drawers, if I remember correctly."

"Enticing her to make much of the limited time we have on this earth," Crane defended haughtily, then stole her ice cream right off her spoon.

"Hey!" she protested.

His expression was positively wicked.

"Just like a man, to lead her on with a line and ice cream promises, then take it all back once he got what he wanted," she grumbled, dipping her spoon in again. "The more things change, Crane…"

He took the nearly empty carton, then both their spoons, and placed all on the nightstand. He turned back to pull her beneath him, their bodies still naked and warm from much loving.

"I'm taking nothing back, Lieutenant," he said gravely. "But Mr. Marvell had the right of it, wanting to seize the day." He kissed her and enjoyed the chocolate that lingered on her lips.

"'But at my back I always hear

Time's wingèd chariot hurrying near;

And yonder all before us lie

Deserts of vast eternity…'"*

He grew more impassioned with each whispered word of the poem, his hands gently framing her beloved face, raining kisses on her lips, her cheeks, her nose, for emphasis.

"We both well know the importance of time," he said. "I'm trying not to think of it, but as we near April eighth, I do feel as if Time is at our backs, and we should make the most of whatever days we have."

"That's why I'm here with you now," she told him.

"Allowing me to transgress your drawers," he added with a smile.

She lifted her hips enticingly against his. "And then some," she added. He closed his eyes at the renewal of his desire.

"Then by all means, I must gather ye rosebuds,**" he mused, his mouth lowering to one dark, rose-hued areole.

"Aww," she said on a grateful sigh, "ye certainly may…"

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

They lived in their passionate bubble for as long as they could, but their weekend came to an end, and Abbie had to return to work.

"I was thinking that perhaps I might procure a teaching position at the local higher education establishment," said Crane over their Monday morning omelets. "I do now have false documents from Oxford, though in truth I was a graduate as well as a professor there in my former life."

She sipped her coffee, her brows furrowing. "What'll you do when they call to verify that?"

"My recent sojourn back to England brought me in contact with a professor of History there, who now, as it turns out, owes me a favor."

"Oh? How did you manage that?"

He smiled mischievously. "That, my dear, is a story for another day. Suffice it to say, I have no doubt his recommendation shall pave the way for my employ at Sleepy Hollow Community College."

She smirked. "You're overqualified, you know."

"Perhaps, but I am unwilling to relocate just now, as something much more pressing than occupational prestige stays me here."

They shared an amorous look, and he reached for her hand across the table.

"You mean the fact that we live on what amounts to a Hell hole?" she teased sweetly.

"Indeed, my love. Be it ever so humble."

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Two weeks had passed—two of the best out of Crane's multiple lives—and the day of reckoning finally arrived. His deal with the Horseman must be kept, and he would meet his old friend once more. This time, however, he'd wisely told Abbie of his plans. They were lying in bed on the day of the meeting, and Abbie had begun to have doubts about what Crane was about to do.

"What if this is a trap?" she asked. "What if this rite takes _your_ soul away? Who knows—maybe the Horseman also made a deal with Katrina in Purgatory."

"I've thought of this," he said gravely. "But being free of her—completely free—is worth the risk. Besides, I know Abraham loves her, perhaps more than I ever really did, given his capacity for forgiveness."

"But—"

"Hush," he said, placing a long finger upon her full lips before replacing it with his mouth. "We are not living in fear, remember? And if I renege on our agreement, he will make it his mission in life to kill you. Your life is one thing I will not sacrifice."

She knew she could not fight his stubbornness. So, if she could not beat him…

"I'm going with you tonight," she proclaimed.

He recognized her equal determination, and smiled, shaking his head in wonder.

"I won't even attempt to dissuade you."

"Smart man," she said, relaxing beneath the covers against him.

"Might I get that in writing?"

Her hand began to wander to his groin, and he inhaled, nostrils flaring as she ignited his passion once more.

"I'm more of a woman of action," she said slyly, sneaking a glance at his handsome face, contorted now in sensual appreciation.

"I have heard that—that…oh, my…actions speak…ahhh…louder than words. By all means, Lieutenant, please proceed…"

Later that night, they walked through the woods together, each holding flashlights, the moonless night so dark that all the stars in the sky glistened brightly above the trees. Katrina's amulet hung heavily about Crane's neck.

"This would be seriously romantic," said Abbie wryly, "if we weren't going to meet your dead wife and a headless demon of the Apocalypse."

Crane sighed. "It is a meeting I have both dreaded and anticipated. But it will be the end of that chapter of my life for good, and perhaps Katrina might finally rest in peace."

"I hope so," she said, and found his hand in the darkness. He squeezed it and both of them felt immediately more connected. Despite his earlier reassurances, she still couldn't help but feel anxious about the outcome. Losing him was not an option for her, and the moment she believed something might go wrong, she would do what she could to stop the ritual. She felt the heft of her holstered gun beneath her jacket, loaded with some of their special demon fighting bullets.

The Horseman was waiting in the clearing before the ruins of what had been Pandora's lair, carrying a lantern, his ghoulish head now planted firmly within his high redcoat collar. He still could not speak as a living human being, and Crane pressed against the green stone at his throat.

"Ichabod. So you have come. And brought your little strumpet, I see." He nodded his skull toward Abbie, the gruesome smile never changing, at least to Abbie's eyes. With the aid of the amulet, Crane could still see his old friend's former face.

"Watch yourself, Abraham," said Crain, his voice dangerously cold.

"What did he say?" asked Abbie, but Crane shook his head slightly.

"Not worth repeating."

Abraham laughed without humor. "It's quite touching, really, how protective you are of her. A pity you couldn't find feeling enough to save your own _wife_."

"Let's dispense with the pleasantries, shall we? Tell me about the ritual."

"In such a hurry to be free of Katrina?"

"Yes, in as much of a hurry as you are to be with her."

"Aw, well, then. Let's get on with it. We will need your blood," the Horseman announced, as if asking for a lump of sugar.

Crane withdrew a knife from a scabbard at his hip. "I assumed you would," he said.

The Horseman directed his light toward an eight-foot circle on the ground nearby, drawn in kerosene. "Stand in there. I will set the circle afire, then you will place exactly four drops of your blood, one at each compass point. I will call out the incantation, which you must repeat exactly as you do this. A portal should open, and we will see Katrina waiting at the mouth of Purgatory. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Crane replied. He turned to Abbie, who was trying not to fidget nervously, an expression of deep concern on her pretty face. "It will be all right," he said. "No matter what happens, you mustn't interfere."

She didn't much like that directive, but she nodded dutifully. "Okay. Be careful," she said, looking warily past him at the Horseman. Crane brought her hand to his lips.

"Of course. I've much to be careful for."

He didn't need to hear the words that were clearly emanating from her eyes; he hoped she could see them reflecting back in his.

Crane took his place in the circle, and the Horseman lit and tossed a match, catching the circle on fire. His mouth set in a bracing line, Crane drew the knife across his palm, deep enough that blood began welling at once.

The Horseman began reciting the incantation in Latin, while Crane put his first four drops at the north end of the circle. From Abbie's Latin classes in college, and her recent experiences with spells and incantationas, she could tell most of the words. Something about opening the door to the beyond and releasing the soul of Ichabod Crane from that of Katrina's. As predicted, the air a few feet from Crane began to shimmer like a desert mirage, until suddenly things became clear, and it was as if a door to another world was opened to them.

On the other side of that door, stood Katrina, a baby-sized bundle in her arms. She was as beautiful as ever, her vivid hair flowing around her dark, intricately stitched gown. Abbie couldn't see for certain, but something about the bundle didn't seem right; it was unnaturally still, and she might have sworn there was no baby swaddled in his mother's arms.

"Ichabod?" Katrina called, squinting into the darkness. "How can you be here? This isn't your time…"

Then her eyes widened in horror as she saw her husband, standing amidst fire, blood dripping from his hands. She focused on Abraham next. Apparently she could understand him without her amulet in Purgatory, and when she heard the words both he and Crane were repeating, her eyes blazed with fury.

"Cease this at once!" cried the witch. "I'll not let you go, Ichabod! I forgive you for taking my life, but we are bound together for eternity, you, our son, and I!"

But Crane ignored her, focusing on what he must speak, on counting the ruddy drops he must expel. Katrina began a counter spell of her own, and it became a race against time—of whom would finish their incantation first.

Abbie stood by helplessly, watching the man she loved repeat the complicated words while pressing his palm painfully to get more blood flowing, where it fell like red raindrops to the forest floor.

As Crane repeated the last words of the Horseman's incantation, Katrina's own spell ended, and there was a bright flash of light. Crane dropped suddenly to his knees, before collapsing to the ground, face first, barely missing the fiery sphere surrounding him.

"Crane!" cried Abbie, rushing toward him.

The Horseman looked in shock at Crane on the ground, uncertain whether the final words had actually escaped the man's lips before Katrina's spell had overtaken him.

"Abraham," screamed Katrina. "What have you done?"

A moment later, the portal closed, the sounds of Katrina's angry cries fading with it. The forest was suddenly quiet once more, the only sounds the crackling fire and the impatient knicker of the Horseman's horse.

Abbie was kicking dirt onto part of the fire so that she might safely cross to get to Crane, who still lay terrifyingly immobile.

"It is done," said the Horseman, though Abbie could not hear him, and he and his demon horse galloped back into the night.

Abbie dropped down beside Crane and rolled him to his back, mindful of the fire that still burned around them. His eyes were closed, his body still as death.

"Don't do this to me, Crane," she said, frantically feeling for his pulse. It beat strong and steady, his breathing satisfyingly regular, but she couldn't revive him, despite shaking and even slapping him lightly on his bearded cheeks.

Despite her strength, she knew she couldn't drag his tall, lanky form from the woods, not that far. She retrieved her cell phone and called for Jenny and Joe.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Crane awoke to find himself back at Abbie's house, surprisingly in Abbie's bed. It was still dark beyond the window blinds, and he wondered how long he'd been out. The last thing he remembered was finishing the Horseman's spell, then glancing toward the portal to Purgatory in time to see Katrina raising her hand toward him, her last words something about sending him back to where he belonged. For a split second, everything had turned bright as day, and then, ominously, dark as pitch. He recalled nothing more. He was in the process of deciphering how Abbie had managed to get him back home, when the sound of a baby's angry wail filled the house.

He bolted from the bed, his immediate thought his last vision of Katrina, holding what had seemed to be his son in her arms. Was Jeremy here now, a babe he had never gotten to hold?

He followed the crying to his bedroom, which he saw immediately was furnished now as a child's nursery. A very large cradle was pushed against one wall, the bedding of which was white and pink gingham. Across the room he saw the source of the noise: Abbie was bending over a padded table, a newborn baby's arms and legs kicking out in anger as Abbie was in the process of changing a soiled nappy. This close, he could now hear her murmuring softly to the child as she worked.

"What's up with you, baby girl? Where's all this temper coming from? Mommy's moving fast as she can. Hush, now, Lori Beth; it's my turn to get up with you, and your Daddy will kill me if he has to end up rocking you again at three in the morning…"

 _Mommy?_

Crane felt the earth begin to spin fast beneath his feet, felt his head trying in vain to keep up. He fell dizzily against the door frame, and Abbie turned toward the thumping sound. When she saw him, she gave a sheepish grin.

"Sorry. She can't decide whether she's madder at her wet diaper or the fact that I didn't feed her first thing." She taped up the other side of the infant's diaper and picked her up, holding the tiny girl against breasts much fuller than Crane remembered. The glint of a wedding band caught the light, and Crane suddenly felt the weight of a similar ring on his own finger. He looked down at it in confusion.

At his dazed expression, Abbie's brows knit in concern.

"You okay, Crane?"

Looking up, he shook his head to try and clear it. "What—what is this? Who is this infant?"

She frowned. "I can understand not wanting to claim her at three in the morning, but there's no doubt that temper tantrum was all from your side of the family."

"My…side…?"

He knew he must have sounded like a simpleton, but he couldn't come to grips with what he was seeing, especially when she walked over to him and thrust the child into his arms.

"Here, take her a minute before I nurse her. I'm about to pee my own damn pants."

"But—" he protested, watching helplessly as she strode out of the room. He looked down at the small, wriggling creature in his arms, and his eyes widened. The little girl's skin was the color of Abbie's favorite cappuccino, her small head covered in a riot of dark curls. She quieted immediately and looked solemnly up at him with pale blue eyes, familiar full lips pursing at him expectantly. One little hand reached jerkily up toward his face.

As another wave of vertigo assailed him, he had to sit down, and the only place in the room was a rocking chair in the corner.

 _Dear God_ , he thought, beginning to rock mindlessly as the baby began to cry again. _Where the hell am I?_ _ **When**_ _the hell am I?_

He heard the distant sound of the toilet flushing, and then Abbie appeared again in the doorway, moving to stand before him.

"All right, all right. Keep your britches on," she said to the baby. "Supper's coming."

She reached for the baby. "You wanna change places?" she asked. "Unfortunately, you're lacking the equipment to do this particular job for me."

He looked momentarily confused by the question, but then he rose to let her sit in the rocking chair with the baby. Before his awestruck gaze she raised her t-shirt and put the infant to her breast.

Crane's vision began to blur again, darkness closing around his periphery.

"Crane?" Abbie said in concern. "Crane!"

He jerked awake to find that he was in the backseat of a moving vehicle, his head in Abbie's lap.

"Oh, thank God!" she exclaimed, bending to kiss his forehead. "He's awake," she announced to the passengers in front. Crane heard the voices of Jenny and Master Joe echoing her gratitude. He moved to sit up, but she stayed him on her lap.

"Easy," she said. "You had a pretty hard faceplant back there in the woods."

That explained why his nose and forehead ached. It didn't, however, explain why he was suddenly in Abbie's SUV.

"Where's the baby?" he asked.

"Baby?" asked Jenny from the front seat.

"I don't think that was really a baby," said Abbie. "Katrina must have deluded herself that she was holding Jeremy."

"No," said Crane. " _Your_ baby."

She shook her head in concern. " _My_ baby? You must have hit your head harder than I thought. Stay put till we have a doctor check you out."

At Crane's continued look of disorientation, Abbie attempted to soothe him by brushing his slightly singed hair back from his forehead.

"Shh…try to rest. We're almost there."

"It was so real," he murmured. Then, he smiled dreamily. "Her name was Lori."

Abbie's hand stilled. "My mother? Did you see my mother with Katrina? Is she in Purgatory?"

Crane shook his head. "No, not your mother. I—I think I was dreaming, but perhaps…"

His voice trailed off as he remembered Katrina's last words before his mind had gone dark. In an attempt to stop him, she had likely attempted to send him forward in time where he actually belonged, but she must have sent him a little too far into the future. If that were so, he wondered how he had resisted her, why he wasn't still there with Abbie and their baby. Perhaps his will was stronger than either of them had suspected.

"Crane?" said Abbie impatiently, when he didn't snap out of his daze. "Are you delirious? You're scaring me."

He blinked, then focused on her in the dimness of the car. Gingerly, he sat up, despite her sounds of concerned protest.

"I'm quite all right, though a little disoriented. But since Abraham left us both alive, I am assuming the spell worked." He took her hand. "I am free, now, heart _and_ soul."

"Yes," she whispered gratefully, squeezing his warm fingers. "Maybe now we can get on with our lives, with nothing coming between us ever again."

"That has been my fondest wish."

He didn't tell her that he thought he had travelled through time again, in case his glimpse of the future had just been a very vivid dream. The idea of having a child together, however, made his heart flutter, planted the seed of hope for their future. Despite their audience in the front, Crane enveloped Abbie in his arms, kissing her sweet mouth like there really was no tomorrow.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

 **Epilogue**

 ** _April 8, 2016_**

 _11:30 p.m._

It had been a long, nerve-wracking two days. Crane had insisted Jenny and Joe come over, that they all would stay at Abbie's house and pass the time indoors, doing safe things like watching movies and eating junk food. Jenny and Joe would be there for moral support, though Abbie was suspicious of that lame excuse. She knew in her heart that this day had wrought her death in Crane's old timeline, and yesterday had been the day that someone else had died. He had already told Abbie it wasn't Jenny, so Abbie had avoided casting fearful looks Joe's way. Of course, Jenny and Joe weren't stupid, and though they had tried to make light of Crane's neurotic behavior, everyone had been on edge, waiting for whatever it was that would take their lives.

When April 7th passed, and Joe still lived, they had all sighed with relief. But then it was the 8th, and the tension mounted once more. Crane refused to allow Abbie out of his sight. It would be annoying, thought Abbie, when he followed her to the bathroom and waited just outside, if she weren't so damned afraid, herself.

" _You're_ not going to survive the heart attack you get from all that fat," teased Abbie, watching him down a fourth slice of deep dish pizza.

"Better me than you," he said seriously.

When Crane was nervous, she had noticed in their time living together, he ate. Carbs were his preferred comfort food of choice.

"This is all been pretty creepy," said Joe, from his place at the table. He had his own slice on his plate, barely touched, and the four of them were involved in a half-hearted game of poker. No one was really paying attention to their cards, and the ticking of the clock on the mantle seemed to grow louder with each passing moment. "It's like a death watch of some kind. You know, when all the relatives used to gather around a dying guy and count his breaths." He shivered visibly.

Abbie glanced at the clock. Thirty minutes remained of the day, and the damned clock could very well be ticking off her last breaths. She looked over at Crane.

She had tried to be brave the last six months, and had even gone days without thinking of what could be her impending demise. She'd reveled in her newfound relationship with Crane, had gone to work every day while he had begun his new job at the college in January. But the day of reckoning had come, and she had been on edge all day. In these final moments of the day, it all suddenly became too much for her.

She pushed her chair loudly back from the table.

"I can't take this anymore," she muttered, and practically ran to the front door.

"No! Abbie!" Crane called in anguish, for who knew what might be lurking in wait outside. He followed after her, pausing by the door to grab Abbie's service weapon and shove it into the front of his breeches.

He caught up with her halfway down the dark, quiet street, grabbing her arm and spinning her around to face him.

"Stop! Please. Look, I know you're frightened, but so am I. We mustn't allow our fears to get the better of us."

"Says you, carb boy?" she said, her voice rising almost hysterically.

He pulled her, struggling into his arms, embracing her almost against her will beneath a street light.

"Shh," he said into her hair. "I don't think your time is today. As a matter of fact, I think you will have many more years to come. You'll get married. Bear children. I've seen it, Abbie."

She pulled away from him to look up into his earnest face.

"What? How do you know this? Is there something you're not telling me?"

He confessed now the vision he had seen of their future, told her that he really thought it hadn't been a dream, that he had actually been there, living it with her for a few precious moments.

"I refuse to believe this was all in my imagination," he said. "I've been denying the truth of it to myself for months, more afraid that it might _not_ come true. But I was _there,_ Abbie. We will have a daughter, and she will be beautiful. And as the final minutes of this day draw to a close, I'm even more certain that what I saw will someday be our future."

Abbie's eyes were welling with tears. "You're not just saying that?"

"No, my love. I believe it."

He put his hands on either of her cheeks, willing her to believe along with him. She closed her eyes a moment, then opened them, sadness replaced with a new determination.

"If—if you're wrong," she said, her voice trembling. "I don't want our last moments together to be on a street. Take me home. Take me to bed."

"But Miss Jenny and Master Corbin—"

"I think they'll get it, don't you? Why do you think they spent half the day in the guest bedroom yesterday?"

He nodded, and, taking her hand, they trotted briskly back to the house. They went past an open-mouthed Jenny and Joe, and left them to their cards, shutting Abbie's bedroom door behind them.

They became lost in one another, their hunger so fierce, so raw, that neither of them looked at the bedside clock, though the concept of Time running out certainly fueled their passion.

Afterwards, as they lay spent, their breathing still unsteady, Crane hazarded a look at the clock. It was 12:20. He gathered her up in his arms, raining kisses over her damp forehead, heated cheeks and swollen lips.

"You're still here," he breathed into her hair. "You're still mine."

"Yes," she said, a wry smile in her voice, "it's like it was meant to be."

They held each other through the rest of the night, Crane vowing to himself that he would never attempt to travel through time again. He didn't want to be in the position of fearing the future, or of fighting it. He would accept life as it came, marriage and baby or not, and if, God forbid, Abbie was ever taken from him, he would remember these beautiful days with her, and he could consider his life complete.

 **THE END**

 **A/N: Thanks for reading this. I hope you enjoyed it.**

 **Poem excerpts:**

 ***"To His Coy Mistress," by Andrew Marvell**

 ****"To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time," by Robert Herrick**


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